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1905 



Copyright 1904 by James W. Foley 



All rights reserved 



LIBRARY of congress! 


Two CoDies 


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DtC 19 


1304 


^^uynirm entry 

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COPY B. 






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The greater part of the verses contained in this vol- 
ume originally appeared in the Bismarck Tribune, the 
New York Times, and the Century Magazine, to whose 
editors and proprietors the author presents his compli- 
ments and thanks for permission to use the same. 



THE GORHAM PRESS 
BOSTON, U. S. A. 



TO MY WIFE 



(EontttttB 



Page 

A Toast to Merriment .... 9 

Why the Jury Disagreed ... 10 

A Midwinter Pastoral .... 13 

A Verse to Memory . . . . 15 

A Christmas Greeting .... 16 

Some Pointers from Grum ... 18 

Just How It Was 19 

Forsaken 21 

On Modern Music 21 

Golden Days in Slowville ... 23 

Ballad of the Rain .... 25 

Old Friends 27 

The Leper and the Bell ... 28 

A Child's Almanac .... 29 

Yesterday 30 

In a Little While 30 

A Mistaken Impression . . . 31 

A Reminiscence of the Lone Pine Trail 32 

Family Resemblances .... 34 

The Bereavement 35 

A Genealogical Homily ... 36 

If He only Had a Mind ... 38 

Poor Jim 41 

Poet and Peasant 43 

Song 44 

Life, Love, and Death .... 45 

Winter 46 

The Cynic's Friends .... 46 

An Up-Country Feud .... 47 
Miss Tabby Tattle Reads the Weekly 

Paper 50 

The Lovable Lass of the Grouchy Old 

Man 52 



A Criticism 

Perseverance 

A Vision of the Little Country Town 

From the Court Records 

Don' Want to Stay 

Dropping Pebbles in the Stream 

Give Me Content . 

In Childhood Time 

The Power of Love 

A Human Life 

Winter and Summer 

Where? . 

The Parted Threads 

At the War Office 

Indestructible 

The Village Church 

Contentment 

A Horse Trade 

The Inexorable 

The Mortgaged Farm 

A Good Deed Done . 

'NOUGH FOR Me 

Taps 

Song of Endeavor . 

Out Over There . 

Look Up . 

The Dead 

Writing a Letter Home 

The Cup will Pass 

Stubbed his Toe 

forgetfulness 

An Art Criticism . 

The Archer's Shaft 

Friends . 

Vanities 

The Lost Heart 



Compensation 

The Unsounded Depths 

A Parting 

The Lost Chance . 

Verses to a Little Child 

The Difference 

Gladness by the Way . 

Lost Opportunities 

Beneath the Snows 

A Lady's Letter of Regret 

The Evil of Wishing . 



Page 

94 
94 
95 
96 

97 

98 

98 

100 

lOI 

102 
103 



A Sl0aBl t0 Mtvnmttft 

Make merry ! Though the day be gray 

Forget the clouds and let's be gay! 
How short the days we linger here: 
A birth, a breath, and then — the bier ! 

Make merry, you and I, for when 

We part we may not meet again ! 

What tonic is there in a frown? 
You may go up and I go down. 

Or I go up and you — who knows 

The way that either of us goes? 
Make merry ! Here's a laugh, for when 
We part we may not meet again. 

Make merry ! What of frets and fears ? 
There is no happiness in tears. 

You tremble at the cloud and lo! 

*Tis gone — and so 'tis with our woe, 
Full half of it but fancied ills. 
Make merry ! 'Tis the gloom that kills. 

Make merry! There is sunshine yet. 

The gloom that promised, let's forget. 
The quip and jest are on the wing, 
Why sorrow when we ought to sing? 

Refill the cup of joy, for then 

We part and may not meet again. 

A smile, a jest, a joke — alas ! 

We come, we wonder, and we pass. 
The shadows fall; so long we rest 
In graves, where is no quip or jest. 

Good day ! Good cheer ! Good-bye ! For then 

We part and may not meet again ! 



Wlfg tiff Mtis BxBn^rtth 

I am an honest man, I am ; ez fair ez a man kin 

be; 
Fer anything that's on th' square, I'm willin' to 

agree ; 
But when I'm right, no set o' men kin argify with 

me. 

I heerd th' witnesses myself an' I heerd th' law- 
yers, too ; 

I heerd th' j edge's charge, 'y jing, that some of 
'em slept right through, 

An' that man, he wa'n't guilty, sir, no more 'n me 
er you. 

Now, what's th' use t' argify when y' know right 

where ye 're at? 
If my mind's made up, 'y jing, I'll stay, y' kin bet 

yer Sunday hat; 
When y' can't git nothin' in th' draw, my doctern 

is, stand pat. 

Ten of 'em stood for th' feller's guilt on th' fust 

vote, instantly; 
One of 'em voted his ballot blank an' th' other one 

was me. 
An' of all th' stubborn, senseless mules, I swan I 

never see! 

I 'low I know what's evidence an' I got some 

slight idee 
Of law myself, though I don't perfess to be no 

LL.D. 
But th' ain't no 'leven men on airth kin bulldoze 

Silas Lee. 



lO 



They argified an' argified, with now an' then a 

swear ; 
I set an' listened to 'em talk an' never turned a 

hair, . , , i i- 

Fer when I tired o' hearin' 'em, I jes played soli- 
taire. 

Thank Heaven I ain't no stubborn fool; I got 

some common sense; 
I take my law fr'm th' jedge, 'y jing, an I sift 

th' evidence; t • ' u' 

But when it comes to my idees, wal, I am t on th 

fence. 

They all got middlin' temperish when th' court- 
house clock struck nine; 

But nary a one of 'em guv in, clear down th' stub- 
born line; , x ju a ^' 

They jes' adhered to their idees an I adhered t 
mine. 

John Scruggs, he 'lowed t' calcalate the jury orto 

rise; . i u jj 

He had some chores t' do at hum an he said he d 

compermise ; «- u* 

An' I said I'd stay till they let him oft — er th 

stars fell fr'm th' skies. 

Twas 'long 'bout midnight time, I guess ; I'd beat 

my sixteenth game 
O' solitaire, an' th' light burned dim with a sickly 

sort o' flame, , , t n 

When Jason Benson up an' 'lowed how I was all 

t' blame! 



II 



I riz right up fr'm off my cheer an' fetched him 

one so free 
That I 'low y' couldn't count th' stars that Jason 

Benson see ; 
An' Jason's cousin (through his first wife) he tuk 

a smash at me ! 

We mixed it purty middlin' warm; Wash Jen- 
kins, he struck out 

At Jason's cousin (through his first wife) an' 
fetched him sech a clout 

That his nose was flatter 'n griddle-cakes, an* th' 
blood jes' spurted out. 

Hamp Hawkins slid down underneath th' table — 

Hamp was slim — 
But someone guv th' lamp a shove an' overturned 

th' glim. 
Hamp's clothes tuk fire f r'm th' kerosene an' durn 

nigh finished him. 

Win Watson mounted of a cheer an' jes' begin t' 

shout 
" Peace ! Peace ! " when Jason Benson he fetched 

him a rousin' clout 
That laid Win len'thwise on th' floor, knocked 

plumb, completely out! 

Then Scruggs he laid a-holt o' me, an' Jason 

grabbed my throat, 
Both holdin' on so cussed tight I couldn't peel my 

coat. 
An' Jason's cousin (through his first wife), he 

says : " Let's take a vote ! " 



12 



Then all of 'em voted fer his guilt — every las* 

one but me ; 
They never had no notion 't all of tryin' to agree, 
So I went back t' solitaire, fer y' can't bluff Silas 

Lee. 

Now that's th' livin', gospel truth, fer any man 

t' read, 
It ain't fixed up t' favor me, an' it ain't no lyin' 

screed ; 
Ez fur ez I'm consarned, 'y jing, th' jury was 

agreed ! 



The frost gleams thick on the window pane, 
The cart wheels creak down the frozen lane ; 
High from the chimneys, everywhere 
Rise threads of smoke to the biting air; 
The barn door creaks with a plaintive twinge, 
Where the glistening frost tints the rusted hinge. 

The old pump cries — a shivering cry ; 

While " Crunch ! Crunch ! Crunch ! " tramp the 

horses by. 
The chore boy shivers as he stands 
And beats his sides with his mittened hands ; 
While the ice forms thick on the old pump spout, 
As the glistening water gushes out. 

There's hoarfrost deep on the great ox yoke. 
And the breath of the oxen comes like smoke ; 
The clothes hang stiff on the swaying line. 
And the house dog stands with a piteous whine 
At the closed storm door ; and the milk cows wait 
With huddled bulks at the barnyard gate. 

13 



The prying youngster, unafraid, 

Dares tip his tongue to the frosted blade 

Of the axe that lies at the chopping-block ; 

The erstwhile strut of the barnyard cock 

Is only a stiff and stilted round 

As he picks his toes from the frozen ground. 

There's snow inch-deep where the cows once 

browsed, 
There's frost nail-thick on the beasts unhoused. 
The chore boy stamps in the drifted snows 
To coax the warmth to his tingling toes, 
As he drives his fork in the sodden hay, 
And the day is gray in a gloomy way. 

There's a '' Crunch ! " and '' Crunch ! " as foot- 
steps stalk 
Down the sounding length of the pine board 

walk. 
The well wheel squeaks with a frosty note 
And the well rope's stiff with an icy coat; 
The gathered oxen drink their fill 
With updrawn backs, and a shiver chill. 

»The shed door creaks with a shivering sound, 
As the soapsuds splash on the frozen ground 
Where a pail from the half-bared arms is swung 
Of the kitchen maid, who gives quick tongue 
In a treble " B-r-r-r-h-h ! " and a grateful change 
Soon finds at the glow of the kitchen range. 

The chore boy beds his beasts, and then 
Shoos back to its perch a vagrant hen; 
The sodden snow from his feet he knocks 
Ere he piles the depths of the great wood-box 
With snowy sticks; and when 'tis laid 
He steals a kiss from the kitchen maid. 



14 



The fields are white and the earth is dead ; 
The frost snaps time to the chore boy's tread, 
Stands thick, Hke snow, on the window pane. 
And the cart wheels creak down the frozen lane. 
While rise from the chimneys everywhere 
Thin threads of smoke on the frosty air. 



Now Memory, like a little child, 

Takes me by one soft hand. 
By dreams of keen delight beguiled 

We stray through Flowerland; 
And like the child, sweet Memory 

By many a byway strays. 
Plucks flowers and bears them back to me 

To fashion my bouquets. 

By many sweet, secluded ways 

She wanders, far or near; 
A rose upon my garland lays 

Bejeweled with a tear: 
The rose of some far-flown ideal, , 

A fragrance, ah, how rare! 
My fingers close but to reveal 

The ashes crumbling there. 

Now tinkling laughter ripples clear 

As some new flower she spies, 
Some far- forgotten joys appear 

As fairy faces rise. 
My thoughts in revel, flower-wreathed, 

Heart-full, my garlands lie, 
While on the scented air is breathed 

A greeting and good-bye. 



15 



Come, Child, away ! The f roHc ends. 

The flower in ashes, dead ; 
The perfume with the air that blends 

We'll bear away instead. 
Here at the hedge we kiss and part, 

Some sterner duties find. 
Bear all the sweetness in the heart 

But leave the flowers behind. 

Thank God, thank God for Memory, 

Half smile and half a tear; 
The flowers are there eternally, 

And when the days are drear. 
In through the tangled hedge of days 

VVe wander, hand in hand. 
And I may dream, while Memory strays, 

A child in Flowerland. 



A Qlljrtjatmaa (grr^ttng 

" Merry Christmas ! " Wishin' it 

Earnest; ain't no hypocrite. 

Got no sort o' axe to grind, 

Jes' feel sort o' so inclined. 

Heart so full o' happiness 

Wish 'et I c'd call an' bless 

Everyone, an' so I say: 

" Merry Christmas ! Bless th' day ! " 

" Merry Christmas ! " Sayin' it 
Honest like, an' heart t' fit. 
Wishin' everyone c'd share 
Happiness, an' some t' spare. 



i6 



Turkey smokin' hot an' brown, 
Old an' young folks settin' 'roun', 
Holly twined with mistletoe, 
" Merry Christmas ! " Jes' feel so ! 

" Merry Christmas ! " Frosty air 

Echoin' it everywhere. 

" Merry Christmas ! " That's what tells 

In th' chime o' th' church bells. 

" Merry Christmas ! " Prose er rhyme 

Can't do justice to th' time. 

Can't find language t' express 

What it holds o' happiness. 

" Merry Christmas ! " Want t' pray 

F'r 'em all jes' thataway. 

Ain't no highfalutin' prayer 

As I know of can compare 

With that simple wish o' mine: 

" Merry Christmas ! " — snow er shine, 

Heart beats happy either way, 

" Merry Christmas ! " Bless th' day. 

" Merry Christmas ! " Me an' you 

An' th' whole world, through an' through. 

Ain't no language can express 

What it means o' happiness. 

'* Merry Christmas ! " Prose er rhyme 

Can't do justice to th' time. 

Jes' ain't nothin' else t' say: 

" Merry Christmas ! Bless th' day ! " 



17 



S^omt f 0tttt^rB from (Bxnm 

" Now I vum," 

Said old Grum, 
" Y' sh'd keep gals t' hum 
Till they're twenty er thirty 
Ez tight ez a drum. 

Y' sh'd I'arn 

'Em t' 'arn 
What they git an' consarn 
Themselves with the'r chores, 
That's my doctern, by darn! 

An' th' boys 

Y' sh'd lick 
Every day with a stick, 
Till they come when y' call 'em 
An' come mighty quick ! 

Y' sh'd teach 
'Em that speech 
Is f'r grown folks an' sicli ; 
We got youngsters t' work, 
We got preachers t' preach. 

An' this dum 
Go an' come 
Is all nonsense, I vum. 
In all my born days 

Ain't been five mile fr'm hum. 

Oh, I got 

Some idees 
How t' raise familees, 
How I'm goin' t' raise mine ; 
You can do as y' please. 

i8 



An' fr clo'es, 

Do y' s'pose 
That my spondulix goes 
F'r Paris creations 

An' gowns an' silk hose? 

Why, say ! 

This old plum 
Colored suit here, I vum, 
I was married. in that 

An' it's good now, by gum! 

Oh, I got 

Some idees 
How t' raise familees. 
I was raised thataway 

An' by gum look at me ! " 



" Now, just let me see : 

Seems to me that 'twas she 

Objected to something 

That he did. Or he 

Objected to her having 

Someone to tea. 

No ! Now isn't that queer ? 

I know I did hear 

Just the way that it was. 

But it's left me, I fear. 

" No ! It comes to me now 
It seems this was the how 
Of it: Something he did 
That she wouldn't allow. 

19 



Or was it her old folks 
That started the row? 
No! Now that isn't right, 
I know that's not quite 
The way that Miss Gadaround 
Told me last night. 

''Ah! Now I recall 
The gossip and all: 
It seems that one night 
When he went there to call — 
'Twas last Spring, I think, 
Or was it this Fall? 
Oh, well, anyway 
What I started to say 
Was that — she — well, 
My memory's awful today! 

" Now, how did she tell 

Me that? Well, well ! Well! Well!! 

You know she got her story 

Right straight from Nell. 

But I can't quite recall now 

Just what she did tell 

Me last night. Anyway, 

Whichever it may 

Be, the wedding is off. 

As I started to say ! " 



20 



High in the tree is an empty nest 

Whence the fledgehngs of yesterday are flown ; 
Hovers a bird in a vague unrest, 

Wondering, it may be, and all alone. 

Wondering, it may be, or East or West 

Or South or North swept the wings untried, 

Wondering over an empty nest 

And the blue of the infinite sky, so wide. 

High in the attic 's a trundle bed 

Whence the child of a Yesterday is flown ; 
Hovers a woman, with tears unshed. 

Wondering, it may be, and all alone. 

Wondering, it may be, or East or West 

Or South or North roams the youth untried, 

Wondering over an empty nest. 

And an empty heart ; — and the world so wide ! 



®n Mohnn Mnmt 

She 's been to masters French and Greek, Italian 

and Dutch, 
She 's put in years on technique and she 's put in 

years on touch. 
She 's long on Dago music, she knows all the 

rhapsodies, 
She 's got a pile o' nocturnes like a haystack, if 

y' please; 
She simply dotes on Vogner; he 's the daddy of 

'em all, 



21 



To hear her rave about him when th' women 

come t' call. 
But with all her fuss an' notions, sir, I wouldn't 

give a prune 
T' hear her play — she don't know how t' play 

one goldurned tune ! 

She sits down at th' bench an' draws a mighty, 

innard breath, 
Then slams both hands down this way — like t' 

scare a man t' death ! 
That's the prelude, so she tells me; then it's too- 

dle-oodle-oo, 
Tweedle, tweedle, toodle, toodle, rattle, tittle, 

tattle, too ! 
Then she climbs up in the treble and she teeters 

on th' keys. 
Like a bird upon a limb when heavy winds is in 

th' trees ! 
Down she slides into the bass part an' she ham- 
mers it like sin. 
While I sit there waitin', waitin' f r th' music t' 

begin. 

Purty soon she strikes up somethin' like an old, 
familiar air, 

Sort o' sweet an' full o' comfort, an' I tilt back 
in my chair, 

Feelin' glad th' noise is over an' th' music has 
begun, 

But she only plays a note or two an' then th' 
music 's done. 

Bang! She strikes a bunch o' discords an' she 
races down th' course. 

One hand a-follerin' t'other like an old, string- 
halted horse; 



22 



An' she murmurs: "Daddy, Daddy, ain't that 
harmony jist grand? 

Oh, Daddy, how it thrills you if you only under- 
stand ! " 

Now I got my own opinion of what music orto 
be. 

An' it ain't no bunch o' fingers teeterin' on a sin- 
gle key. 

It's got some order to it, an' y' hear it in y'r ears 

F'r days an' months, an' sometimes, if it's extry 
sweet, f'r years ! 

Y' kin gi' me Annie Laurie, played th' good, ol'- 
fashioned way — 

Without no frills or furbelows — jes' sit down 
there an' play. 

An' I don't ask nothin' sweeter ; f'r me it's twict 
as grand 

As any furrin rhapsody I never understand! 



(60li^n lags t« ^lotutrtlk 

These are golden days in Slowville ; there is glad- 
ness up and down ; 

For they 're sticking circus posters 'round the 
little country town. 

Flaming sheets of red and yellow on its every 
barn and fence 

Tell of wonders aggregated disregardful of ex- 
pense. 

Tell of wildernesses threaded for the fierce Big- 
rigmajig; 

Tell of jungle-beasts made captive and of marvels 
small and big, 

" In a most stupendous spectacle of splendor and 
renown," 

23 



Say the flaming circus posters in the httle country 
town. 

They have wielded monster brushes from the 

dewy hours of morn, 
They have covered half of Jones's barn with 

grandeur heaven-born; 
They have pictured fluffy ladies on the backs of 

dashing steeds, 
They have ornamented Slowville with a wealth of 

daring deeds; 
They have left a Ripperumptus on the back of 

Robbings fence, 
Captured in the wilds of Africa at marvelous ex- 
pense ; 
They've a retinue of big-eyed lads as they move 

up and down 
When they put up circus posters in the little 

country town. 

Oh ! the multicolored marvels done in wonder- 
rousing haste 

With a broad red barn for background and no 
means but brush and paste. 

" Hi, there, Jimmy ! See the monkeys ! " All 
the air is shrill with cries 

As the myriads of wild beasts are upreared in 
gorgeous dyes; 

There's the fierce Ornithorinktus and the dread- 
ful Wliatisnot, 

The blood-sweating Crinklawoozum and the 
awful Bingleswat. 

Tent and sideshow, flag and streamer, elephant, 
parade, and clown — 

Oh ! they're sticking circus posters 'round the 
little country town. 



24 



These are sleepless nights in Slowville ; sleepless 
nights and anxious days; 

There's a hoarding of stray pennies got in half 
a hundred ways ; 

There are lads in wonder raptured; open- 
mouthed with bulging eyes, 

Where the marvelous menageries from gorgeous 
posters rise; 

Oh! there's glory, glory, glory in the chariots 
arrayed. 

There's rapture in the promise of the splendorous 
parade ; 

And new life has come to Slowville and is surg- 
ing up and down 

Since they put up circus posters in the little 
country town. 



Puddles and pools in the village street. 

Dripping eaves, where the swallows hide; 
The splash and splash of horses' feet 

Down the muddy lane, and the trees beside, 
Sodden and soaked till the raindrops fall, 

Like tears, and the twigs with jewels set 
Of limpid water, and over all 

A haze of mist, like a cloak all wet. 

Under the boughs of the great oak tree 
The glistening bulks of the huddled kine, 

Driven from the pasture and rhythmically 

Munching their cuds, and their broad backs 
shine. 

Drenched and matted with pelting rain. 
Plaintively sounding a lowing wail; 



25 



A passing team in the muddy lane 
And a muffled and melancholy hail. 

Blinding sheets of the driven rain ; 

Mist over hollow and plain and hill ; 
Splashing drops on the misted pane 

That trickle down to the window sill; 
Beaten fowls, with their ruffled crests, 

Crowding close to the sheltering wall ; 
Dripping orchards and sodden nests, 

With mist like a wet cloak over all. 

The herdsman lowers his broad hat brim 

To a sheltering slant, and the raindrops fall 
From the beaded edge of the lowered rim 

To the oilskin coat that envelopes all 
His length ; the guiding collie stops 

From gathering in the grazing flocks 
To shake from his sides the glistening drops 

That mat the mass of his silken locks. 

The eave spout gushes its frothy streams. 

Whence the rain barrel fflls and overflows 
Its sides, and the slate roof blacker gleams 

Through the murk and mist; the housewife 
goes 
From room to room, lest the windows be 

Unshut, and peers through the sodden pall 
Without, and the rain beats endlessly, 

With mist like a wet cloak over all. 

Sullen and sodden and soaked and splashed 
With pelting drops lies the distant field ; 

The roads lie heavy, and wet steeds, dashed 
With mud, where a carriage, muddy-wheeled, 



26 



Rolls down the road, and the drear day long 
The weeping clouds no comfort hold. 

The pelting rain dins a sullen song 
And the day is gloomy, gray, and cold. 



lO A. M. 

"Well! Well! Good mornin' ! Howdy do! 
I never dreamed o' seein' you. 
Jes' come back, huh ? Been away 
Since 'way las' June — or was it May? 
Glad to see you ? Well, I swan 
I missed ve since y' hev been gone ! 
Huh? Well, I don' min' if I do. 
I don' care, seein' how it's you. 

10.15 o'clock 

" Well ! Well ! It does me good t' see 
Y' back again! Hev one with me. 
Yep. Fillemup again, ol' fel'. 
Goin' t' stay, too ? Well, well, well ! 
I'm glad t' hear it. Make a strike? 
Ten thousand, huh ? That's somethin' like ! 
Le's see — how long y' been away? 
Since 'way las' June — or was it May ? 

10.30 o'clock 

" Le's see — how long y' been away? 
Since 'way las' June — or was it May ? 
Well, shay, ol' chap, come up to tea 
Tomorrow mornin'; you an' me, 



27 



We're glad to shee each ozzer — hey ? 
I'm glad t' hear ye' re goin' t' shtay, 
Le's see — how longsh y' been away ? 
Was it nex' June or 'way las' May? 

II o'clock 

" Come on, le's have annuzzer. Shay, 
How longsh shay y' been away? 
Le's see — how longsh y' been away ? 
Or las' June ? An' ye're goin' t' shtay ? 
Shay ! Le's go home. M' wife, she'll be 
Awful gladsh shee you an' me. 
''Le's see — how long y' been away? 
Since 'way nex' June — or wash't May? 

NOON 

" Si' down, si' down ! Shay ! Did y' shay 
How longsh wash y' been away? 
Wash't nex' June or wash't May? 
We're glad t' shee each ozzer — hey? 
Shay ! Never min', now ! Thash all right, 
We'll have breakfas' togezzer t'night. 
An' supper t'morrer mornin'. Shay! 
How longsh shay y' been away?" 



And as the leper with the bell. 

So some men through their lives must bear 
Faces that serve the world as well 

To tell the unclean hiding there. 
And though the leper, shunned, conceals 

His bell, and quiets its shrill stroke, 
Some quick, unthinking step reveals 

Its jingling presence, 'neath his cloak. 

28 



A QII}tl& fi Almanar 

My Mamma says 'at w'en it rains 
'Ey're washin' Heaven's window-panes 
An' careless angels 'ist do fill 
'Eir pails too full an' 'atway spill 
Some water down on us. 'At's w'y 
It rains some days w'en maybe I 
Would like to play. An' 'en she says 
It's 'ist 'em angels' carelessness 
'At makes 'em raindrops fall 'at way 
At picnics an' on circus day. 

My Mamma says 'at w'en it snows 

'Ey're angels pickin' geese, shcj knows, 

An' 'stead o' usin' 'em t' stuff 

'Eir pillow cases, 'ey 'ist puff 

An' blow an' don't clear up 'eir muss 

Till all 'em feathers fall on us. 

An' she says 'ey 'ist pick 'atway 

'Cuz 'ey want geese f'r Tris'mus day, 

An' 'at's w'y 'ere's 'e mostes' snow 

Right close t' Tris'mus time, you know. 

My Mamma says w'en wind ist roars 
An' blows, 'at's w'en 'e angels snores, 
But w'en it lightnings, she says, w'y, 
'Ey're scratchin' matches on 'e sky. 
An' w'en it rumbles 'bove our heads 
'Ey're movin' furniture an' beds 
Up 'ere, an' cleanin' house an' shakes 
'Eir moth balls out an' 'at's w'at makes 
It hail. An' weather, she 'ist 'clares 
Is 'ist w'at angels does upstairs. 



29 



The light that's lost, no eye shall find ; 
No hand shall stay the joys that wind 
Through the long corridors of Time, 
Or lure with lute or tempt with rhyme. 
No cry, no prayer, no agony 
Shall stay the tread of Time for thee. 
Or call from dust and doom away 
The flown delights of Yesterday. 



'Tis only for a little while. 

This life, a mingled sob and smile; 

The heart that throbs so warm today 

Tomorrow ebbs its life away. 

A moment hums life's busy loom. 

Then hushed and silent in the tomb ; 

And wields the sceptre, sob or smile, 

For such a little, little while. 

Youth rears in hope a castled pile 
To rise for such a little while; 
Fate lays in dust its tow'ring walls. 
Ambitious spires and gilded halls; 
Pride's swelling crest, now plumed high, 
Now stricken low, prays God to die; 
Time leads the saddened heart to smile 
In such a little, little while. 

Life's little candle feebly glows, 
Life's little current quickly flows, 
A moment heaves the troubled breath, 
The candle finds its socket, Death. 



30 



The flushing cheek, the radiant eye, 
Dim, kistreless, and cold shall lie, 
And yet those pallid lips shall smile 
With God in such a little while. 



A iEtatakiftt Smprrjeaton 

She was kissing a picture — I saw her, I saw her, 
She sat at her desk and the door was flung 
wide ! 
She was kissing a picture — Oh, horror ! Oh, 
horror ! 
Oh, Woman, must faithlessness with thee 
ahide ? 

She was kissing a picture, I know it, I know it ! 
The love light upon it glanced bright from her 
eyes ! 
Oh, Traitress, I'll face thee ! Thou'lt show it ! 
Thou'lt show it ! 
Aye, 'front her I will with the deed ! Then she 
dies ! 

She was kissing a picture! She hides it! She 

hides it! 

Down deep in a drawer and she's turning a key. 

Now death and destruction betides it, betides it ! 

And woe whom it pictures when he shall face 

me! 

She was kissing a picture ! She's going ! She's 
going ! _ 
I'll bide till she's gone and I'll steal it away ! 
Oh, jealousy's fury that's glowing, that's glowing 
Within me ! Oh, doom that has found me this 
day! 

31 



She was kissing a picture ! I'll take it, I'll take it 
And flash in her face this damned image she 
loves ! 
The desk! It is locked ! Well, Til break it, I'll 
break it 
And find me this card that her faithlessness 
proves ! 

She was kissing a picture! I've found it, I've 
found it! 
(Be quiet my heart and be silent this moan !) 
With letters and flowers around it, around it! 
Why! What! ! Well, I'm jiggered! ! ! The 
picture's my own ! 



A SFttttntsanr^ of tl|^ lUnm l^xm ©rail 

Dead o' th' night an' th' moon rose pale 
As th' face o' th' man we led along, 

Over the hills th' long-drawn wail 
Of a coyote-cry, like a funeral song. 



Never a man of us spoke a word 

As we tramped th' trail t' th' Lone Pine tree, 
But a wind rose out o' th' dark an' stirred 

Th' grass o' th' prairies mournfully. 

Mile an' a half fr'm th' ol' log jail 

T' th' Lone Pine tree at th' Devils Bend, 

But a man don't speed on his final trail. 
With a tree an' a rope at th' other end. 

Two in front as we lef th' jail, 

Two behind an' two at th' side ; 
Then forward march f'r th' Lone Pine trail 

Th' last this side o' th' Great Divide. 



32 



He walks along an' he knows th' plan, 
An' seems resigned as a man can be ; 

F'r a life's a life, an' a man's a man. 
A rope's a rope an' a tree's a tree. 

Give him a plenty o' time t' walk, 

Don' hurry a man on his final track; 

Plenty o' room if he wants t' talk, — 

F'r he stays thar when th' rest come back. 

Stan' back, an' give him a chance t' pray. 
He needs God's help in th' by an' by ; 

F'r a man will sin an' a man mus' pay, 
But a man can't do no more'n die. 

Grit yer teeth f'r th' struggle, Pard, 
We'll make it quick as it can be made. 

Down, down on th' other end thar! Hard! 
A man has sinned an' a man has paid ! 

Th' hills are grim an' th' mornin's gray, 
Thar's somethin' thar 'twixt th' sod an' sky. 

A man will sin an' a man mus' pay. 
But a man can't do no more'n die ! 



33 



" He sort o' favors the Sykeses," 

Says Ma, lookin' closely at me, 
An' she looks up at Pa as if layin' th' law 

An' a-waitin' fer him to agree. 
(The Sykeses, you know, was Ma's people.) 

*' Jes'see that small mouth an' small chin, 
I don't want to brag but he's jes' his Aunt Mag 

I tell ye, right over agin." 

" Walks jes' like his Uncle Cornelius ! " 

C He couldn't walk straight if he tried, 
An' I had him to bail 'leven times out o' jail," 

Says Pa, in a sorter aside.) 
" Swings along jes' Hke him," Ma says, smilin'. 

(" He orter have swung! " Pa mos' chokes, 
Fer it always makes him jes' a-bilin' 

When Ma claims I favor her folks.) 

" Got the reg'lar Sykes disposition." 

(''An' a devil's own temper it is," 
Says Pa down beneath his breath, grittin' his 
teeth. 

And his dander beginnin' to sizz.) 
"An' his hair, well, it's jes' like Aunt Sary's, 

Thet married Lige Jenks from the Mills, 
An' his nose is the picter o' Mary's, 

An' his brow is th' image o' Will's." 

"An' his voice, he gits that from th' Joneses, 

They're cousins, you know, down in Kent; 
An' I guess it mus' be from his Aunt Cicely 

That he's gittin' his musical bent ! " 
An' Pa, well, he gits mad as thunder 

An' swears like a pirate at sea. 
An' says : " Thank the Lord that he's gittin' his 
board 

And his clothes and his lodgin' from me ! " 

34 



®l|^ Mnmbtmmt 

We're all alone, 'ist Pop an' me, 

'Cuz Mamma's gone away somew'eres 
T' stay th' longest time ; an' we 

Are all alone; an' Pop 'ist stares 
A-past me an' he never hears 

Me when I ast w'ere she could be, 
An' both his eyes are full o' tears 

Wen we're alone, 'ist Pop an' me. 

An' after w'ile I ast him w'y 

She don't come back; but he don't know 
An' 'en some way he starts t' cry 

Till I say, '' Please, Pop, don't cry so." 
An' put my arms part way around 

His neck an' hug him, 'ist 'cuz we 
Are lonesome ; he don't make a sound ; 

An' we're alone, 'ist Pop an' me. 

An' he 'ist hugs me up so tight 

An' sez my Mamma's gone so fur 
She won't come back, but sez we might 

'1st some day, maybe, go to her. 
An' I ast w'y can't we go now 

'Cuz we're so lonesome here; but he 
Don't seem to hear me ast, somehow, 

An' we're alone, 'ist Pop an' me. 

An' 'en I 'ist fergit she's gone 

An' think it's almos' time fur her 
T' come an' put th' supper on. 

But w'en Pop's eyes are all a blur 
I 'member 'at's she's gone away 

An' can't git supper; Pop sez he 
Ain't hungry, an' I ain't, I say ; 

An' we're alone, 'ist Pop an' me. 



35 



An' 'en Pop rocks me in his lap 

An' rubs my head, 'ist soft an' kind. 
An' asts me if I'll take a nap 

If he pulls down th' parlor blind. 
An' in a little w'ile I fall 

Asleep an' he 'ist rocks ; but he 
Don't never go t' sleep at all, 

An' we're alone, 'ist Pop an' me. 



You may believe 'tis true that your coursing 
blood is blue, 
But science stern assures us that all healthy 
blood is red; 
And the longest pedigree that grows on a family 
tree 
Isn't half as beneficial as a good, long head. 

You may refer with pride to your ancestors, be- 
side 
Whose fame your light is dim, for letters, art, 
or pelf. 
But I trust you will believe it is nobler to achieve 
Enough that you may be some time an ancestor 
yourself. 

The watch dog well who serves and who care- 
fully observes 
The strangers who approach and wakes the 
family with his bark, 
Tho' he had no pedigree is a better dog for me 
Than the dog that sleeps, e'en tho' his ancestors 
were in the Ark. 



36 



It is right that you admire, and admiring, you 
aspire 
To trace a noble pathway in your genealogy, 
But permit me to assure that no person, rich or 
poor. 
Ever plucked a plum of greatness off the 
grandest family tree. 

The man who is a king, duke, or lord, or anything 
That's noble, tho' his ancestors were cobblers 
at the last. 
Has a much more honored way in this little world 
today 
Than the cobbler whose ancestors governed 
kingdoms in the past. 

And full many a man today, to whom honor we 
might pay. 
Has been overcome in living up to a proud an- 
cestry ; 
And full many a man been laid in an everlasting 
shade 
By the branches of a towering, spreading, an- 
cient family tree. 

So don't take it much to heart when a man takes 
you apart 
And tells you he was bred 'mid aristocracy's 
environs ; 
Tho' his ancestors came o'er in the Mayflower to 
this shore. 
The log book, still, may show that every one 
came o'er in irons. 



37 



You've seen him — 'course you have — the man 

who might have been so great, 
If he'd had the incHnation and could only struck 

his gait ; 
Who's afeard to work in summer when the tem- 

per'ture is riz. 
And who can't work in the winter, 'cause he's got 

the rheumatiz ; 
Who goes through life complainin', 'cause the 

good things pass him by. 
An' a-tellin' what he could do, if he'd only half 

way try; 
The man that in the race of life is joggin' 'way 

behind, 
But who might 'a' led the winners, if he'd only 

had a mind. 

When I hear a feller tellin' 'bout the great things 

he could do, 
If he felt like, alius makes me think of our old 

Bobby Blue; 
A great, big, strappin' feller, but at workin' he 

was slack, 
'Cause he had a sunstroke once and was afeard 

he'd bring it back. 
But Lor! I guess there's nothin' that was ever 

yet to do. 
But Bobby could 'a' done it, if he'd really wanted 

to. 
You'd have to scour the universe with fine toothed 

combs to find 
A man to beat him workin' — if he'd only had a 

mind. 



3S 



I've seen him sittin' evenin's on an old three- 
legged chair, 
His pants all rags and patches and with both his 

elbows bare, 
A-scrapin' an old fiddle till he'd alius weary us, 
Screv/ up the pegs, an' cross his legs, an' look 

mysterious. 
Then, winkin' confidential like, he'd say : " Don't 

say a word, 
But I got the greatest idee that you ever seen or 

heard. 
It's for a patent right; you boys jest keep still 

and you'll find 
I kin make it worth a million — if I only got a 

mind." 

Again I've seen him sittin', with the people passin' 

by-. 

A-chewin' cheap tobacco and a-spittin' at a fly; 
And he'd point out the rich merchant that he 

might 'a' had as clerk. 
And the house he might 'a' lived in, if he'd had a 

mind to w^ork ; 
And the girls he might 'a' married, if he'd had a 

mind to try ; 
And the teams he might 'a' driven, that went 

swif'ly steppin' by; 
And the gems he might 'a' sparkled, and the way 

he might 'a' shined. 
With an independent fortune — if he'd only had 

a mind. 

One night we went together to th' op'ry-house 
to hear 

A way-up concert company that was goin' to ap- 
pear. 



39 



They had the finest fiddler there that ever tuned 
a string, 

An' the noises that he imitated jest beat every- 
thing. 

At first he had us laughin', an' next time he made 
us cry, 

An' he played hird songs so life-like you could 
almost sec "cm fly ; 

An' Bobby sit and yawned and blinked, and fi- 
nally opined 

He could beat him all to thunder — if he only had 
a mind. 

Th' last time I saw^ Bobby he was purty nigh the 

end, 
A-suff'rin' from the fever an' he didn't seem to 

mend. 
The doctor gave him pills and things, but didn't 

do no good. 
He said he'd never get well and old Bobby swore 

he would. 
Doc was a-feelin' of his pulse — 'twas beatin' 

mighty slow. 
Says he : '' It's only forty, and that's runnin' 

mighty low." 
An' Bobby says, says he : '' It may be runnin' 

'way behind, 
But I could run her up to ninety — if I only had 

a mind." 

I can see him standin', peerin' at the gates of 

Paradise, 
With a sort o' leerin', sneerin'-like expression in 

his eyes. 
I can see him sizin' up the gate, an' then I see 

him feel 
The gold an' pearly trimmin's and a-wonderin' 

if they're real ; 

40 



I can see him steppin' through an' takin' in the 

sights inside ; 
I can hear him telHn' Peter what he could do if 

he tried ; 
An' his drawHn' voice a-sayin' that, while things 

was mighty fine, 
He could build a blame sight better — if he only 

had a mind. 



}^0or 3tm 

In a New England commonwealth, while knock- 
ing 'round for strength and health, 

I boarded with a widow dame (of course I can't 
disclose her name), 

An acid creature, gaunt and grim, who lived 
alone with one son, Jim. 

A freckled, awkward, red-haired chap, not reared 
exactly in the lap 

Of luxury, or taught to know affection's honeyed 
overflow. 

And oft my rose-hued fancy's dreams were rudely 
shattered by the screams 

Wild from the wood-shed forth which came. And 
then my stern, ascetic dame, 

Smoothing the wrinkles from her lap and waving 
high a leathern strap, 

Emerged, and said in accents grim : " Feel better 
now, I've paddled Jim." 

Day in, day out, that same assault, whatever the 

wrong or whose the fault. 
If any boarder sought by night to liquidate his 

debt in flight. 
My acid widow from her grief in flogging Jim 

found swift relief, 

41 



Whene'er in anger, 'twas her wont to strap that 

awkward little runt. 
The beef was tough, the bread was burned — at 

once my lady quickly turned, 
Until she spied the trembling Jim ; her claw-like 

fingers gobbled him, 
Swift to the wood-shed bore him out, aloft she 

swung her leathern knout, 
And then emerged, tall, sour, and grim : " Feel 

better now, I've paddled Jim." 

Poor Jim, a child of sores and salve, served as a 
constant safety valve. 

Perhaps my lady angered came from quarrel with 
some neighbor dame; 

Or worsted in some church debate; arose, per- 
chance, a little late ; 

The butcher's bill was deemed too large ; the gro- 
cer's trifling overcharge 

Conspired to rouse my lady's ire; her lips were 
drawn, her eyes flashed fire; 

Straightway the luckless Jim was sought, the 
strap from out the kitchen brought, 

Jim laid across his mother's lap; shrill whistled 
then the leathern strap. 

Until she breathed in accents grim : '' Feel bet- 
ter now, Fve paddled Jim." 

But once my lady's accents shrill were silenced; 

she was stricken ill. 
Her lungs distressed, she strove for breath, and 

hovered between life and death. 
The doctors pondered in dismay; they held no 

hope and saw no way 
To save my lady's life. More grim and gaunt 

she grew, and little Jim 
Was called to say his last good-bye. She spied 

him with a brighter eye, 

42 



Swift seized him, drew him 'cross her lap, and 
called the nurse to bring the strap. 

At eve the doctor, calling 'round, miraculous im- 
provement found. 

" I feel," she whispered low to him, " much bet- 
ter since I paddled Jim." 



P0^t wxh l^tmnnt 

He was a simple countryman, a genial soul and 
kind. 

The evening was poetic, and to imagery inclined, 

I gazed out o'er the stream and field. '' How 
musical the leaves ! " 

I cried. '' What web of melody their subtle rus- 
tling weaves ! 

The crystal waters murmur down the banks of 
moss and fern, 

Adown the vale the sombre wail of lingering 
loon or hern. 

Shrill, shrill the cry of night birds high, forth- 
floating in the air, 

And fairy footfalls trip and tinkle where the fleece 
floats there, 

In boundless billows of the unflecked, azure sea 
of blue. 

I listen. Aye, I hear them, nearly ! Nay, and 
do not you ? " 

" I b'lieve I do hear suthin'," he replied, " down 

in the bogs ; 
An' mebbe it is fairies, but mos' likely it is hogs." 



43 



" See ! See ! " I cried. *' The streaming splendor 

streaking o'er the sky, 
Where chariots of cloud on starry wheels are 

rolling by. 
See the auroral beams that stream from zenith 

to the sea, 
Where dies away the twilight gray and Night 

reigns full and free. 
The yellow moonlight's misty glow gilds all the 

scene around. 
Her jeweled rays fall now ablaze the hills — the 

Night is crowned 
With her own queenly diadem ; the bright, au- 
roral light 
Is Splendor's gorgeous setting for the sable cloak 

of Night. 
In thy mind's eve canst not descry the picture as 

I call : 
The Queen of Night, the crown of light, the sable 

cloak, and all? " 

The night's own splendor dazzled him. His 

sleepy eye he rolled. 
" Doggone them sun dogs ! " then he said. 

" They're alwus bringin' cold ! " 



#01X0 

Not the mysterious music of the heights, 
The grandeur of harmony whose eagling flights 
Wing us to clouds dim, distant, dark, and dull. 
Give us the simple songs that, free and full, 
Find echo in our hearts, as when we lift 
The lattice, that through all the house may drift 
The red-robed robin's twittering song, that wings 
Its flight by the vined window as it sings. 

44 



Living and loving and dying, 

Life is complete in the three. 
Smiling or sobbing or sighing, 

Which is for you or for me? 
Hoping and struggling and striving, 

Dreaming success by and by; 
But whether we're driven or driving, 

We live and we love and we die. 

Aiming and hitting and missing. 

Life is complete in the three. 
The fickle world praising or hissing, 

Which is for you or for me? 
Striding or limping or creeping, 

Time drives us heartlessly by; 
Meeting and parting and weeping. 

We live and we love and we die. 

Yearning, rejoicing, and mourning, 

Life is complete in the three. 
Sackcloth or garland adorning. 

Which is for you or for me? 
The web of our little day, stretched. 

Meshes a sob or a sigh; 
Joyful or joyless or wretched. 

We live and we love and we die. 

Wishing and fearing and fretting, 

Life is complete in the three. 
The world's remembrance or forgetting. 

Which is for you or for me? 
Gnarled and knotted and tangled 

The skeins of our little lives lie; 
Mud-spattered or jewel-bespangled. 

We live and we love and we die. 



45 



BxnUv 

Grieve ye not. The flowers are not dead, 
Their beauty fades but for a Httle while. 

Grieve ye not. The leafless branches spread, 
The Mother, Spring, shall waken with her 
smile. 

Grieve ye not. Tho' still the fettered lake, 
Ice-locked and silent, voiceless, cold, and gray. 

The Spring again its melody shall wake, 
And all its waves shall whisper to the day. 



Grieve ye not. If from the sea and sky 

From earth and air a whisper wings to thee, 

And tells thee thou asleep in Death shalt lie, 
Spring smiles and teaches thee Eternity. 



®I|F QIymr*a 3nmhB 

Friends are but bubbles in a bowl. 
Mere empty things, devoid of soul, 
Reflecting but what shines upon; 
A puff of wind and — pish ! They're gone. 

Now see! So carefully I've wrought 
To raise and fashion one from naught. 
A passing gust! A zephyr veers! 
My bubble bursts and disappears. 

I sit and gaze at one I've made 
Reflecting gems of light and shade. 
When, lo, it bursts! The friendship flies 
And leaves but soap dust in my eyes. 



46 



So thick they cluster, bright they shine, 

So delicate, clear-hued, and fine. 

So fair, so fine — to look upon. 

But brush so lightly — puff ! They're gone ! 



An lp-Ql0untrg 3tnh 

I ain't on good terms 'ith Wilson; he ain't on 

good terms 'ith me. 
Neighbored fer nigh onto ten years, friendly as 

friendly could be, 
An' then fell out over a horse trade, crooked as 

ever you see. 

Wilson, he owned a big ches'nut trotter — a 
spankin' fine horse. 

Used to go splittin' th' breezes 'long of a quar- 
ter-mile course. 

Fine lookin' animal, Stranger; plenty o' gimp, 
speed, and force. 

I had a pacer could go some; bright bay, almost 

a blood-red, 
Nobby an' stylish fer light work, groomed to 

a shine, an' well fed, 
But a durn nasty habit o' balkin', when th' notion 

got into her head. 

Wilson druv over one mornin'; sez t' me, sez 

he : '' Say, Win, 
Wisht y'd come 'long 'ith yer stop-watch, held 

fer a quarter-mile spin." 
Had th' big ches'nut hitched up t' a road-cart an', 

sez he : " Jump in ! " 



47 



Say! He showed speed fer that quarter! Fast 
as I ever see made ! 

''Wilson," sez I, ''he's a winner; puts my bay 
horse in th' shade." 

He sez to me, sez he : " Winston, how'd y' con- 
sider a trade? 

" I ain't a fast-horse man, Winston ; I ain't jes' 

nachelly fit 
T' own sech a stepper as this is ; that is th' reason 

of it." 
He talked so almighty hones' I thought that he 

was — an' I bit ! 

Seemed like a sin when I guv him some cash an' 

that balky ol' bay; 
Sort o' like robbin' th' feller — giving him 

swamp-grass fer hay; 
But tradin' of horses is tradin' — an' that's about 

all there's t' say. 

It happened in county-fair season; I druv over 
there th' same day. 

Entered my horse in th' races, chucklin' th' whole 
of th' way, 

An' found when I got there that Wilson had en- 
tered th' race 'ith my bay. 

He grinned when he see me a-comin' a-drivin' 

his ches'nut, an' I 
Fer th' life o' me couldn't help laughin' t' think 

o' th' fun, by an' by. 
When he druv that ol' bay in th' races an' found 

out her weakness ! My, my ! 



48 



Nex' day when th' free-for-all started, my ches'- 

nut shot into fust place, 
Went t' th' quarter like lightnin' — th' wa'n't 

nothin' else in th' race. 
Went at a two minute clip, sir, but couldn't stand 

up t' th' pace. 

Fer when we got up t' th' quarter, my ches'nut 
went down on his knees, 

Gaspin' fer breath ev'ry minute, with an on- 
healthy sort of a sneeze. 

Wind-broken ! Yes, sir, by thunder ! Had a 
regular wind-broken wheeze ! 

Mad! I was mad as a hatter! Mad till I jes' 

couldn't talk. 
But I looked down th' track at th' starters, an' 

there stood th' bay at a balk. 
While a crow-bait from down in th' coimtry was 

winnin' th' race in a walk. 

I ain't on good terms 'ith Wilson ; he ain't 'ith 

me, as y' see. 
Neighbored fer nigh onto ten years, friendly as 

friendly could be. 
He says I done hmi dirt in a horse trade; I say 

that he done it t' me. 



49 



" So Lidy Thomas wants a girl f 'r housework ! 

Well, I do declare 
That woman never keeps one more'n two weeks ! 

Somethin' wrong up there ! 
I heerd her las' girl tellin' how she didn't git 

enough to eat, 
But that was only servants' talk — sech gossip 

as I won't repeat ! 
An' Lucy Brown is gone to teachin' music down 

at Bridger's Dell 
An' quit the church as organist! Well, I allow 

it's just as well. 
From what I've heerd about her bein' mighty 

sweet on Parson Brooks ; 
An' him a married man ! I say there's danger in 

too much good looks ! 

" Joe Gudger's married ! Well, I vow if sech 

rapscallious folks as him 
Can find a partner f'r their joys my chances ain't 

so mighty slim ! 
Close! Why, his first wife's sister says she'll 

swear it with her dyin' breath 
Joe Gudger was so stingy that his first wife sim- 
ply starved to death ! 
Another party up at Blake's! My, how some 

folks can put on airs 
An' snub their betters puzzles me ! Why, Toby 

Toser's clerk declares 
They owe f'r three months' groceries — they 

never pay and never will ; 
An' Toby's wore a pair o' shoes out goin' up to 

git th' bill! 



50 



" Jane Hitchcock an' that gawky Burns hev gone 

an' married ! Well, I do 
Declare it's time he popped to her if ever he in- 
tended to! 
He's been her stiddy beau eight years an' but f'r 

Jim Burns I allow 
She might 'a' been a happy wife an' had a family 

by now ! 
An' Ezry Cowles 's got th' grip ! Well, if it cost 

a cent t' git 
Y' can mark down that Ezry Cowles 'd be a long 

time gittin' it! 
There's only one thing that would tempt that man 

t' quit this life o' sin. 
An' that would be a cut-rate sale on coffins, with 

a hearse th rowed in. 

** Lem Wilson's addin' to his house ! I wonder 

where poor Lem'll git 
Th' cash. Ain't got th' mor'gage paid he had to 

put on t'other, yit. 
Now that's what comes fr'm weddin' style ; Lem 

was a thrifty, savin' soul 
Until he married that Sue Clay, an' she's just 

goin' through him whole ! 
Tod White is dead. Poor Tod! His chance o' 

reachin' Heaven 's mighty sHm. 
But bein' as he's dead I won't be one to say no 

bad of him. 
Th' paper's sort o' runnin' down, at least accord- 
in' to my views; 
I don't know as I ever see th' Weekly with so 

Httle news." 



51 



®I|^ ffilouabb ffia00 of tlj^ (grnurlm ®lh Mm 

A grouchy and crotchety, fussy old man, 

Whose stick on the walk beats a rat-a-tat-tat, 
The cut of his coat on an old-fashioned plan, 

A shiny red nose and a worn beaver hat. 
A blare of defiance, he trumpets his nose, 

He clears his hoarse throat with a he-he-he- 
hem ! 
But the girl on his arm, she's as fair as a rose, 

How grew such a flower on such a gnarled 
stem? 

He bushes his eyebrows and scowls upon me. 

His stick with a click beats the walk as we pass, 
His scowl wastes the bloom of a smile that I see 

And freezes it stiff on the lips of the lass. 
He raises his hat with a Chesterfield air, 

The sweep of his arm is chill courtesy's sign; 
But his eyes pass me by with an unseeing stare. 

If blood were for spilling, he'd dabble in mine. 

There's pride in the white crest, uplifted so high. 

Defiant the tilt of the old beaver hat. 
Contempt in the stare of the unknowing eye. 

And the click of his stick with its rat-a-tat-tat. 
He spurns me, he scorns me, he hates me, — he 
knows 

I'm nursing in secret some pilfering plan 
To pluck from its parental arbor the rose 

That rests on the arm of this fussy old man. 

So he passes me by with an unseeing stare, 
His cane beats defiantly rat-a-tat-tat. 

He trumpets his nose with a furious blare. 
There's pride in the tilt of his worn beaver 
hat. 



52 



Love may laugh at locksmiths, nor hazard a care 
In bridging most gulfs of despair with a span, 

But Love needs more courage than mine has, I 
swear, 
To laugh at this crotchety, fussy old man. 



A damsel stood upon the stage, 

A stage-worn damsel she. 
A critic sat and heard her sing, 

A world-worn critic he. 

" I'm saddest when I sing," she sang, 

A tear stood in her eye. 
He sighed, the wretch, and murmured to 

Himself: ''And so am I." 

" I cannot sing the old songs," 

She sang. Sighed he — '' 'Tis true, 

Two kinds of songs you cannot sing, 
The old ones — and the new." 

" Oh, for a thousand tongues to sing 

I'd give my eyes," he hears. 
"And I," he murmured, " had you them, 
Would give away my ears." 

" Had I the wings of any dove," 

She sang, '' I would rejoice." 
He muttered : '' You could make them from 

The feathers in your voice." 



53 



Says he to me, says he, one night, 
A-shiverin' with mortal fright, 
An' twistin' of his handkerchief, 
A-trembHn', shakin' hke a leaf, 

Says he to me, says he: 
" Maria," sort o' halted then, 
An' coughed, an' then began again, 
'' Maria, I've got somethin' here 
That for as much as 'leven year 

I've tried t' say t' ye." 

My! My! My heart jes' beat an' beat. 
When he come up an' took his seat 
Right nex' t' me an' took my hand. 
An' when he squeezed it — Oh, my land ! 

I was jes' all unstrung. 
So then I says to him, says I 
To him, says I : " What is it, Si ? " 
An' I jes' set an' set an' set 
An' sort o' fearful like, an' yet 

So glad he'd found his tongue. 

An' then he says to me, says he, 
A-sort o' sof an' tremblin'ly, 
" Maria " — an' I set an' set, 
A-wonderin' if he'd never get 

Aroun' t' any more. 
'N then I says to him, says I 
To him, I says: ''What is it, Si? 
I b'lieve you were addressin' me?" 
An' Si he set there silently, 

As bad off as before. 

An' then I says to him, says I, 
"A lovely evenin', ain't it. Si? 
Jes' seems to sort o' lift ye 'bove 
Yerself an' make ye think o' love." 

54 



My! I was gettin' bold! 
An' Si, he got so mortal 'fraid, 
I thought he'd run, but, no, he staid, 
An' then he says : " My hens they lay 
Nigh fifteen dozen eggs today." 

An' that was all he told. 

My ! My ! My blood run hot an' cold, 
T' think that he could sit an' hold 
My hand, an' be so mortal 'fraid 
He'd talk 'bout eggs his hens had laid. 

So then I says, says I, 
" If that is what ye've tried to tell 
For 'leven years, ye've told it well." 
An' Si, he says : " How could ye say 
That, when them eggs only today 

Was laid. 'Taint that," says Si. 

So there we set an' set an' set 
Till I jes' got so desperate 
My nerves was all a-fiutterin' 
To see him set a-stutterin' 

An' me in sech suspense. 
An' then I says to him, says I, 
" Was it somethin' about me, Si ? " 
An' he said : '' Yep ! — I wonder how 
That everlastin' brindle cow 

Broke through my pasture fence ? " 

An' then I says, an' sort o' slow : 
" Si, was that 'leven years ago. 
An' hev ye been so mortal 'fraid 
To tell me that before? " I said, 
Somewhat sarcastic'ly. 



55 



An' Si, he says : " Why, course it wa'n't, 
I jes' chanced to be thinkin' on't, 
An' wonderin' how that critter got 
Through that fence, when them posts was sot 
So tarnal deep," says he. 

My goodness me ! I never see 
A man need help so much as he, 
But I kep' patient, an' says I : 
"Is it somethin' ye're wantin'. Si?" 

An' he says : " Yep. It be ! " 
I knew my chance was mighty sHm 
If I sh'd set an' wait for him, 
An' so I jes' cast all aside 
My nat'ral modesty an' pride. 

An' says : " Si, was it me ? " 

Well, say ! If ye could see Si throw 

His arms 'bout me ! " How did ye know ? " 

Says he. An' then he says to me — 

Oh, jes' as sweet an' lovin'ly, 

With sech a happy smile: 
" Maria, jes' as sure as fate, 
I knew that if I'd only wait. 
No odds how many times I'd flunk, 
Thet some time I'd jes' get up spunk 

To tell ve after while." 



56 



He sits there at the fireside, where the mellow 
light is gleaming 
O'er the columns of the little country paper 
that he holds, 
And something he has read there seems to set 
his fancy dreaming. 
While memory's panorama of forgotten days 
unfolds. 
Its quaint and homely phrases all incline him to 
reflection ; 
Some sweetness of enchantment as he lays the 
paper down 
Strips the bitter peel of sorrow from the fruit of 
recollection. 
He tastes the mellow sweetness of the little 
country town. 

He sees, at even, a cottage where the lamplight's 
dimly straying 
Through the window, thickly bowered with the 
honeysuckle vine; 
To his ears come strains of music — there's a 
sound of someone playing 
On a little cottage organ and the notes of Auld 
Lang Syne. 
He hears the tea things clatter, sees a woman's 
figure flitting 
Here and there, belike some fairy, and the 
shimmer of her gown; 
And longing leads his fancy to the place where 
he is sitting 
Just across from her at table in the little coun- 
try town. 



57 



What spell lies on its columns? There rise lusty 
tones and laughing, 
A rioting of young folks through the open 
parlor door, 
The place resounds with revelry and badinage 
and chaffing; 
Someone has brought his fiddle from the little 
country store. 
The merry songs from lad and lass in lusty tones 
are swelling. 
The sparkling cider passes in the earthen jug 
and brown ; 
What silver-throated eloquence of memory is 
telling 
The story of the glory of the little country 
town? 

Yet he sits here alone, where all the dreamy 
shadows dancing, 
And silent, save for voices that his memory 
may hear; 
The eyes that o'er the columns of the little paper 
glancing, 
Like violets, dew-misted, in the passing of a 
tear. 
For some, as he, are missing from the circle once 
unbroken. 
And one he knows lies sleeping where the au- 
tumn leaves are brown; 
His hair is white, like silver, yet in fancy he has 
spoken 
With all those lads and lasses of the little 
country town. 

The misty eye of sorrow at the bush of dreams 
is seeking 
The rose of recollection with the fragrance of 
its morn, 

S8 



And in the ear of memory the voice of grief is 
speaking — 
The hand that plucks the blossom knows the 
sharpness of the thorn. 
His dreams die with the embers at the fireplace 
— ah, the pity! 
The paper falls from listless hands and idly 
flutters down. 
How lonely, lonely, lonely is the sullen, smok); 
city. 
When the heart has come from straying in the 
little country town ! 



3frnm % (Hanrt l&twthB 

Young Silas Watkins stole a ham — a theft most 
reprehensible. 

And then engaged a counselor (which certainly 
was sensible). 

They plunged him in a dungeon deep, a dungeon 
grim and terrorful, 

The while his lawyer went to court upon a mis- 
sion errorful. 

And when he found at once the whole proceed- 
ing could be " busted," he 

Sued out a habeas corpus and took Silas out of 
custody. 

In court his learned counsel urged with dignified 

suavity 
The dangers of unseemly haste in matters of such 

gravity. 
The prosecution's bitterness he held unjustifiable, 
" 'Tis J ustice, with her blinded eyes, before whom 

we are triable ! " 



59 



And after hours of argument, with growing heat 
and frictional, 

He took a change of venue on a question juris- 
dictional. 

Whereat the counsel got a stay of trial for a year 
or two, 

To find a missing witness (who was dead, I have 
a fear or two). 

The years rolled on, they tried him, and unmer- 
cifully depicted him 

The commonest of larcenists; the jury then con- 
victed him. 

" No chance for Silas ! " cried his lawyer. " Yes, 
I say, indeed he has ! " 

Upon the which he went to court and got a super- 
sedeas. 

" Good cheer ! " said he to Silas. " You will 
soon be on your feet again." 

While Silas gave a bail bond and was straight- 
way on the street again. 

A monstrous abstract then they filed, the lawyer 
made a noise and fuss. 

Until, within a year or two, the court gave them 
a syllabus. 

Which, stripped of all its verbiage and law and 
technicality. 

But reaffirmed the verdict based on Silas' proved 
rascality. 

" Odds blood ! " cried Silas' counsel to his client, 

'' When I've read you this. 
You'll see the entire finding simply reeks with 

flaws and prejudice. 
To jail shall any citizen for stealing of a hock be 

sent?" 



60 



Straightway the which he went to court and 
filed another document. 

'' No sheriff shall arrest him, sir, on any legal 
sham as grim 

As this, and if a sheriff tries, I'll certainly man- 
damus him ! " 

Again upon the solemn court, with masterful 
urbanity. 

He urged a close inquiry by an expert on m- 
sanity, 

Who felt the bumps on Silas' head, who found 
profound rascality, 

Who in a year made his report of " obvious nor- 
mality." 

Long Silas' counsel studied it, by methods not 
revealable, 

And finally concluded the decision was appeal- 
able. 

Good Silas gave another bond to stay his jail 
processional ; 

Good Silas' counsel labored with an ardor quite 
professional, 

Until he got an order from the highest court 
available, 

" (That, as the statutes read, there was a ques- 
tion if 'twas jailable,) 

The court below should try again, and though 
they might acquit it, or 

Convict it, they must try again " — so stated the 
remittitur ! 

The witnesses, those gray old men, recalled the 

ancient history 
Of Silas' crime with halting speech, and deep 

and dark the mystery 



6i 



To them of why they were recalled ; with quavef- 

ing tones, in truthfulness 
They told again the old, old tale of Silas' erring 

youthfulness. 
The jurors held he could not change his spots, 

but like the leopard he; 
So Silas' counsel straightway held he had been 

twice in jeopardy. 

Alas ! So intricate a case, with all the points in- 

volvable ! 
When Death took Silas and to dust found him 

to be resolvable. 
Took him for reasons, good, perhaps, but which 

were not revealable. 
And Silas' counsel found, alack, the judgment 

not appealable ! 
But back to court he strode when sure that 

Charon o'er had ferried him, 
And cried : " I want a nol. pros, for my client — 

we have buried him ! " 



S0n' Uant to g>ta^ 

Jes' don' seem I want to stay 
Sence she went away. 
Jes' don' seem as if I care; 
Everything seems bare 
An' empty now, an' so I say 
Jes' don' seem I want to stay. 

Sun shines, bird songs in th' air, 
Jes' don' seem I care. 
All th' music o' th' spring 
Don' seem anything. 



62 



Used to love it, but today 
Jes' don' seem I want to stay. 

Walkin' roun' th' field today, 

Don' look th' same way ; 

Cattle lowin', crop to spare, 

Jes' seems I don' care. 

Scent o' flowers an' new cut hay, — 

Jes' don' seem I want to stay. 

Used to like to hear th' breeze 
Rustlin' through th' trees ; 
Thought th' grass a-growin' green 
Prettiest thing I seen. 
All changed sence she went away, 
Jes' don' seem to want to stay. 



Drop a pebble in the water — jes' a splash an' 

it is gone. 
But th's half a hundred ripples circlin' on, an' 

on, an' on, 
Spreadin', spreadin' from the center, flowin' on 

out to the sea, 
An' th' ain't no way o' tellin' where th' end is 

goin' to be. 
Drop a pebble in the water — in a minute ye for- 

But th's little waves a-flowin' an' th's ripples cir- 
clin' yet; 

All th' ripples flowin', flowin', to a mighty wave 
hev grown, 

An' ye've disturbed a mighty river — jes' by 
droppin' in a stone. 



63 



Drop an unkind word or careless — In a minute 

It Is gone, 
But th's half a hundred ripples circlin' on, an' on, 

an' on. 
Th' keep spreadin', spreadin', spreadin' from th' 

center as th' go, 
An' th' ain't no way to stop 'em, once ye've 

started 'em to flow. 
Drop an unkind word or careless — In a minute 

ye forget, 
But th's little waves a-flowin' an' th's ripples cir- 
clin' yet; 
An' perhaps In some sad heart a mighty wave of 

tears ye've stirred, 
An' disturbed a life 'et's happy when ye dropped 

an unkind word. 

Drop a word o' cheer an' kindness — jes' a flash 

an' It Is gone. 
But th's half a hundred ripples circlin' on, an' 

on, an' on, 
Bearin' hope an' joy an' comfort on each splash- 
in', dashin' wave. 
Till ye wouldn't b'lieve the volume o' th' one kind 

word ye gave. 
Drop a word o' cheer an' kindness — In a minute 

ye forget, 
But th's gladness still a-swellin' an' th's joy a- 

circlln' yet; 
An' ye've rolled a wave of comfort whose sweet 

music can be heard 
Over miles an' miles o' water — jes' by droppin' 

a kind word. 



64 



(Sifa? Mt (Hmtmt 

Give me Content, all else is vain. 
Nor Power nor Majesty may gain 
The prize. And yet in me are blent 
All these, the while I have Content. 



Hark ! I hear the happy laughter that from chil- 
dren's voices rings, 

Swelling out like some vast golden harp with 
half a thousand strings. 

Every one vibrating grandly in an ecstatic ac- 
claim, 

In a medley of sweet melodies that set the birds 
to shame; 

On the harp of childhood's happiness each note 
rings clear and true, 

For the heart is pure and perfect and each quiv- 
ering string is new. 

And it tells and swells like bells afar that ring 
and rhyme and chime 

The sweetest music ever told in note or tune or 
time. 

When the heart is growing older and the harp of 

laughter rings. 
There's a false note clashing somewhere in the 

swelling of the strings ; 
There's a chord that strikes imperfect, where 

some sorrow echoes through 
The melody, and grief has warped the strings 

to strains not true. 



65 



Sometimes there's brilliant music that rings from 
an empty heart, 

But it's not the melodious laughter of the child, 
that knows no art, 

But just flows full and free, for Nature's teach- 
ings, undefiled. 

Make music that is heart-true in the sweet voice 
of a child. 

Could I gather every note that floats and rings 

and swells and tells 
The gladness of the child's heart, true as any 

chime of bells 
May tell the passing hour, and fashion them into 

a song, 
'Twould thrill and fill the air with melody as 

though a throng 
Of seraphim, as tinkling cymbals struck the 

twinkling stars 
In heaven's perfect music, where no din or dis- 
cord mars. 
And a myriad strings would mingle in a melody 

sublime. 
The rhyme and chime of laughter gathered from 

all Childhood's Time. 



The thunder of Hate may be lost on the gale, 
Mav be stilled in the storm, in the tempest may 

^ fail, 
But the whisper of Love wings unerring its way 
From a star to a star, through the ages for aye. 



66 



A ship that throbs along in dire distress 
Till lost in oceans of forgetfulness. 
A tangle of sweet flowers whose petals turn 
To ash of unfulfiUment in an urn. 

A wisp of tangled threads, whose parted ends 
No deft hand joins, no endless effort mends. 
A play whose fickle players merely greet 
And go and leave the story incomplete. 

A bud that opens brilliant at the dawn, 
Flings sweet perfume a moment and is gone. 
A breath between a cradle and a bier, 
The blending of a smile, a sob, a tear. 

A book whose pages turn with each new day, 
Till Time has read the tale and cast away. 
A mask worn till a passing play is done. 
To cloak a wraith and hide a skeleton. 

A lie, whose ghostly semblance is concealed 
Till in a shroud its untruth lies revealed. 
A thing that shapes the sod for a brief day 
And dies and leaves its faithful slave more clay. 

A story that is told ere 'tis begun, 

A song that only whispers and is done ; 

A thing that chains the lightnings and that stirs 

The deep — the elements its messengers. 

Lord of the sea and sky, a ruler proud 
That quakes at storms and trembles at a cloud; 
That comes and goes on wings unseen — a germ 
That grows to fill a grave and feed a worm. 



67 



Jitntrr nnh Bnmnwv 

Snow on the hilltops, drear and bleak, 
Snow in the vales where the shrill winds speak 
In mournful tones; but deep and deep 
Down, down, beneath, the flowers sleep. 

Green are the hilltops, fresh and fair, 
Sweet is the breath of the scented air, 
Loosed the chains of the ice-locked lake. 
And the sad earth smiles and the flowers wake. 

Snow on the heart that is riven and bleak, 
Snow on the heart where voices speak, 
Voices of grief that is deep and deep, 
Yet still in the heart the flowers sleep. 

A whisper of hope on the scented air. 
Flown is the snow and the bleak heart fair; 
Dull Grief's grim fetters break and break. 
And the sad heart smiles and the flowers wake. 



"Where lies the town of Happiness?" 
Cried the youth to the wrinkled sage, 

As they met one day on the vv^eary way 
That lies 'twixt Youth and Age. 

The gray haired wise man shook his head- 

" 'Tis a little farther on," he said. 

" Where lies the town of Happiness ? 

I pray we reach it soon ; " 
For risen high in the molten sky 

Was the sun that marked Life's noon. 
But again the wise man shook his head: 
" 'Tis a little farther on," he said. 



68 



"Where lies the town of Happiness?" 

The youth was old and gray, 
With shoulders bent, and eyes intent 

Where the road stretched forth, away. 
The wise man sadly shook his head: 
" 'Tis a little farther on," he said. 

"Where lies the town of Happiness?" 
Down, down in the dust he fell; 

His voice was shrill and the death films fill 
His eyes. Mused the sage : " 'Tis well." 

And there gleamed in his eye a tear unshed: 

" For me, 'tis farther on," he said. 

If he came back, I wonder would he know 
The voices whispering of the long ago? 
If he came back, I wonder would he see 
The beauties, buried now, that used to be? 
If he came back, back from the dust and dead, 
I wonder would he seek the broken thread, 
And follow on, o'er sod and o'er the sea, 
Until it led him back to youth and me? 

If he came back, I wonder would he share 
My dreams? Or would the roses in my hair 
Be but dull, voiceless flowers of the spring. 
Speechless and silent, mute, nor whispering 
The secrets once they told ? Or would they glow 
With the sweet memories of long ago, 
Where every petal quivered with the weight 
And grandeur of a rapture passionate? 

If he came back, I wonder would he feel 
The rapture of the hopes that used to steal 
From out the tinted twilight as we stood 
Beneath the boughs in the thick, leafy wood, 

69 



Thrilled with the song whose silent melody 
None heard in all its ecstasy but we? 
Would he now hear that whispered song and low 
If he came back, who went so long ago? 

Where ends the song that is yet half unsung? 
In the still mound, where the green turf upflung? 
Dies all the music, or but hid in air, 
Trembling, yet mute, in that vast Otherwhere? 
The threads now parted, who shall mend again, 
Weld broken links, restore the chain ? And then 
When they come back, who have been gone so 

long, 
I wonder will they know the old, sweet song? 



At % War (§&tt 

A woman poor and a peeress proud, 
A dingy room and a crushing crowd, 
The gloom of death and grave and shroud, 
A stifled cry and a sob, aloud. 

A heart has heard and an eye has read ; 
A soul has writhed, and a lowered head 
Is bowed, and a trembling tongue has said: 
" My God ! My God ! And he is dead ! " 

A wail, a sob, and a bitter cry ; 

An anguished tear in a woman's eye ; 

A peeress' face where agony 

Is carved, and a mutely murmured " Why? " 

A woman stares and a peeress starts. 
Without, the din of traffic's marts 
Throbs in the streets. Lie far apart 
Their lives; but close, so close their hearts. 



70 



A wreath of roses hung upon a stone, 
Above me, this alone. 

A sob that floats, and falHng tear on tear 
Descending here. 

Some soul in sorrow kneeling at the tomb, 
And in the gloom. 

Pouring above me to the silent air 
Its deep despair. 

Though cold the pulseless clay and deaf the ear. 
Yet I shall hear. 

Though the thick shadows endlessly shall flow. 
Still shall I know. 

Though from the dumb, dead tenement in flight 
Wing life and light. 

Yet not deserted lies the silent clay. 
For Love shall stay. 

Crumble the stone and in the dust shall lie, 
Yet Love not die. 

Through the long night when the dark shadows 
creep. 

Not even sleep. 

But whisper from the silence of the bier : 
'' Lo ! I am here." 



71 



We're off for the village church today — Mother 

an' Moll an' me, 
Come fr'm th' city, a hundred miles, to go, es- 
pecially. 
Been goin' t(i brnwnstone gospel shops, imposin' 

an' grand an' swell, 
But I don't feel that hankerin' there for heaven 

or that proper fear o' hell 
That I alius did in th' little church in th' village 

we used to 'tend, 
Where th' green woodbine an' th' ivy twine, an' 

the songbirds' voices blend 
With th' village choir, an' the gospel hymns rang 

out on th' summer air, 
An' th' Lord sort o' seemed to come right down 

an' sit among us there. 

Off for th' village church today — there's a tear 

in IMother's eye. 
An' another one in my own, I guess, but I couldn't 

tell ye why ; 
Mebbe it's 'cause we was married there, so many 

3^ears ago, 
An' our boy lies there in his grave, asleep, an' 

th' music seems to flow 
Out through the vine-clad window in a sort o' 

lullaby, 
As th' breath o' God might kiss th' sod where 

the souls all sleeping lie. 
Th' air's so still an' the sweet hymns fill our 

hearts with peace today. 
An' th' Lord sort o' seems to come right down 

an' kiss our tears away. 



72 



There's a somethin' grand 'bout the village 

church — I can't jes' tell ye why, 
But ye seem to get right close to God, an' ye 

stand there silently, 
Breathin' a prayer so earnest like, yer eyes all 

blurred an' dim. 
As though He was standin' there an' ye was 

whisperin' to Him. 
An' th' little organ's mellow tones, an' th' music 

seems so grand. 
Because it tells a tale of love that yer heart can 

understand. 
An' yer heart feels warm with love that ye want 

the world to know an' share. 
An' th' Lord sort o' seems to come right down 

and sit among us there. 

I got to live in th' city, 'cause I got my int'rests 

there. 
But Mother an' me, when we come to die, are 

both a-goin' to share 
A lot in the village churchyard, where our lost 

boy lies asleep; 
An' though our lives is happy, sometimes we sit 

an' weep, 
An' sort o' yearn for th' time to come when th' 

Lord's own lullaby 
Floats through th' vine-clad window above us as 

we lie ; 
When our boy shall wake and we shall take his 

hand at th' Judgment day, 
Rise from th' sod, in th' steps o' God — we three 

— an' go away. 



73 



Live in Today, nor count the Future's sorrow ; 

Live in Today, nor dream the Future's pain; 
Live in Today, there may be no Tomorrow. 

Today's delights thou mayst not know again. 

Smile in Today; whate'er the morrow brings 
thee, 

Smile in Today, while yet thy heart is glad ; 
Be thou the songster that in gladness sings free ; 

Today is bright ; Tomorrow may be sad. 

Today Life's harp is tuned to notes of gladness, 
Deft Happiness the sweetest notes may raise. 

Tomorrow strikes its wailing strings to sadness, 
And Memory only mournful music plays. 



A l^axB^ (HxvLht 

"Hello!" says L 

"Hello!" says he. 
I never see the man afore. 

" Swap? " says L 

" Dunno," says he. 
" Mebbe, mebbe — I ain't shore." 

" Th' bay? " says L 

" Th' gray ? " says he. 
" Swap ! " says we, an' both unhitched. 

" Fine horse," says L 

" O' course," says he ; 
An' in a minute we had switched. 

" Git up ! " says L 
" Git up ! " says he. 
An' both them horses stood stock still ! 



74 



"Balk?" says I. 

" Yep ! " says he. 
" Mine too ! " s' I, laughin', fit to kill. 

" Say ! " says I. 

"Hey?" says he. 
" Guess that's horse apiece," says we. 

" Good day ! " says I. 

" Good day ! " says he. 
Best joke, b' gosh, I ever see! 



Seek not to fathom Fate's decree; 
Whatever has been was to be. 
Not all the sighs of Time could stay 
The heavy hand she seeks to lay ; 
Not all the tears of all the years 
Could blot one page from yesterday. 

Seek not to see beyond the cloud. 
To fathom depths beneath the shroud ; 
Thy little knowledge soars in vain, 
To beat its wings in dust again. 
It is thy doom to dwell in gloom 
Till Death shall see thee rest or reign. 

Thou canst alone hope some wise plan 
Pervades the destiny of man ; 
That purposes divine are blent 
With what seems chance or accident. 
That out afar, the falling star 
Sees purpose to its mission bent. 

Thou art a prisoner here, alone, 
And helpless as the sod or stone ; 



75 



Small as on greatness lay'st thou stress, 
Great as thou know'st thy littleness. 
A child of Chance and Circumstance, 
God's infant in thy helplessness. 



Goin', goin', goin' — gone ! Mother, dear, don't 

cry; 
Th' old home's passed t' other hands, but mebbe, 

by an' by, 
We may save an' buy another, though no place'll 

ever be 
As dear as this one that we've lost has been t' 

you an' me. 
Goin', goin', goin' — gone ! Mother, come away ; 
Th' ol' farm's been knocked down an' sold — it 

does no good t' stay ; 
We've tried our best t' save it, but it wasn't or- 
dered so. 
It ain't our home no longer — Mother, dear, le's 

go! 

I don't know as I ever see th' ol' farm look so 

fine. 
Never see a deeper green on every shrub an' 

vine; 
Clover blossoms never smelled so fresh an' sweet, 

somehow. 
Lilacs never grew so thick, it seems, as th' do 

now. 
The ol' white house with its green blinds, the 

woodbine creepin' on, 
'Twon't do no harm, I guess, t' take a las' look 

'fore we're gone. 



76 



Tried our best t' pay th' debt, we did, th' Lord 

mus' know, 
But somehow couldn't make it quite — Mother, 

dear, le's go. 

Goin', goin', goin' — gone ! I seem t' hear it yet ; 
Seem t' hear the auctioneer — my eyes somehow 

get wet; 
Gone t' pay th' mor'gagee, an' we are crowded 

out. 
Gone ! So many things are gone that folks don't 

think about. 
Every blade o' grass an' tree, every foot o' ground 
Has some hauntin' memory, some sweetness 

clingin' 'round. 
Some memory for you an' me, that other folks 

don't know ; 
It seems somehow the'rc speakin' now — Mother, 

dear, le's go. 

Goin', gone ! We couldn't save it, Mother, dear ; 

we tried, 
But everything went criss-cross — th' cows took 

sick an' died, 
We had to sell th' horses — th' farmin' didn't 

pay, 
An' troubles sort o' double-quicked — sometimes 

the' come that way. 
Goin', gone ! The pasture lands ; th' dairy house 

beside 
Th' brook; the first house that we built, where 

Sue and Johnny died. 
T' other folks it's simply losin' of a bit o' land. 
But the's a loss t' you an' me that they can't un- 
derstand. 



77 



Goin , gom', goin — gone ! I wonder what's th' 

use 
Twinin' heartstrings 'round an' 'round jes' t' 

tear 'em loose. 
Goin', gone ! Th 'way o' Hfe ; why, th' good Lord 

knows ; 
Buildin' up for years an' years, an' then away she 

goes! 
Hopes or homes, it's jes' th' same — what we 

build about, 
Other hands mus' reap th' fruits an' we are 

crowded out; 
vStory always jes' th' same, fr'ni th' light o' dawn 
T' th' twilight's mist an' shade — hopes goin', 

goin', gone. 



A ^00i ^nh Son? 

I know one deed in kindness done 
More glory brings, more fame has won. 
Than countless good we would have wrought 
To all the world — if we had thought. 



*N0U0lj f0r Mt 

Sometimes I think I'll thrash him, good. 

He needs it bad, I'm sure ; 
An' sometimes — well, I b'lieve I would, 

'N then I can't endure 
T' tech th' 'musin' little kid. 

For when he smiles, y' see. 
He looks jes' like his mother did, 

An' that's enough for me. 



73 



I guess a hundred times or more 

I've taken him inside 
Th' bedroom there, an' closed th' door 

An' tried an' tried an' tried 
T' bring myself to strike him, once, 

Jes' once — an' then I see 
His mother's smile on his wet face, 

An' that's enough for me. 

First thing I know I'm sittin' there 

Pettin' th' little chap. 
An' strokin' of his curly hair, 

Holdin' him in my lap, 
An' dreamin' of her — seein' her 

Jes' as she used to be, 
An' somethin' makes my eyes t' blur. 

An' me cry silently. 

He's got the same brown eyes she had. 

An' the same silky hair ; 
Looks so like her, th' little lad, 

That — well, I jes' don' dare 
To lay a finger rough on him; 

'T 'd almos' seem as though 
I was a-bein' harsh to her. 

An' so I let him go. 

He ain't a bad boy — no, he ain't, 

Jes' mischievous, that's all. 
In all his makeup th' ain't a taint 

O' meanness — an' I call 
T' mind when things she used to do 

Exactly like he does, 
I thought was jes' th' cutest an' 

Th' dearest ever was. 



79 



Y' know sometimes he'll come t' me, 

An' say to me : '' Say, Dad, 
Y' ain't goin' t' whip me, now, are ye? 

I ain't been very bad." 
An' then he'll twist, an' sort o' smile ; 

My eyes get blurred and dim ; 
Th' ain't enough gold in th' world 

T' hire me t' tech him. 

Folks say I'm spoiHn' him; may be 

I am, but I don't dare 
T' tech him rough — he looks like she 

Did, an' so I don't care. 
He puts his little arms aroun' 

My neck, an' I can see 
Her in his eyes, so big an' brown, 

An' that's enougfh for me. 



Lights out! and darkness brooding deep around 
Thee, soldier; not the trembling bugle's sound 
Nor volley thrice repeated o'er the mound 

Shall waken thee. 
Lights out! Not where the flag of battle flies, 
Nor here, where the sad, silent shadow lies. 
Shall drumbeat call or bugle bid thee rise. 

But silently, 
Thy duty done, thou sleepest. Rest thee well; 
Nor any rude alarm shall strike and swell 
To rouse thee — Glory stands thy sentinel. 

Good night to thee! 



80 



g>0nj5 of Ettb^auor 

Tis not by wishing that we gain the prize, 

Nor yet by ruing, 
But, from our falHngs, learning how to rise, 

And tireless doing. 

The idols broken, not our tears and sighs 

May yet restore them. 
Regret is only food for fools; the wise 

Look but before them. 

Nor ever yet Success was wooed with tears; 

To notes of gladness 
Alone the fickle goddess turns her ears, 

She hears not sadness. 

The heart thrives not in the dull rain and mist 

Of gloomy pining. 
The sweetest flowers are the flowers sun-kissed, 

Where glad light shining. 

Look not behind thee; there is only dust 

And vain regretting. 
The lost tide ebbs ; in the next flood thou must 

Learn, by forgetting. 

For the lost chances be ye not distressed 

To endless weeping; 
Be not the thrush that o'er the empty nest 

Is vigil keeping. 

But in new efforts our regrets today 

To stillness whiling, 
Let us in some pure purpose find the way 

To future smiling. 



8i 



(©ut Wbtr Sllf^r^ 

I see the transport's here at last ; the soldier boys 

have come. 
I hear the bugles brayin' an' the beatin' o' the 

drum; 
I can see the flags a-flyin' and the bands begin to 

play, 
An' it seems to me they sailed from Frisco only 

yesterday. 
I'd like to join the shoutin', but I couldn't cheer 

a note ; 
There's a lump that's always risin' and a-chokin' 

in my throat. 
They're marchin' down the street by twos; I'm 

watchin' every pair, 
But I know my boy ain't with 'em — they have 

left him over there. 

I know a fellow ought to try to put aside his 

tears, 
An' he ought to join the shoutin' an' the ringin', 

rousin' cheers. 
But say! It's hard to stand here an' to see 'em 

marchin' on, 
An' to know that my boy's missin' from them 

marchin' ranks, an' gone. 
Say, if I could only see him, with his head erect 

an' high, 
An' if he could know I was a-watchin' of him 

passin' by ! 
An' know that in that cheerin' he was gettin' of 

his share ! 
But he can't — the Lord saw fit to muster him 

out over there. 



82 



There's so many, Lord, so many ; an' my boy was 

all I had, 
An' it seems you might 'a' left him to his poor 

old lovin' Dad. 
His mother died so long ago ; he never knew her 

face. 
An' Daddy's breast in childhood was his only 

restin' place. 
An' when the call for volunteers was made, he 

come to me, 
An' he pleaded to go with 'em, an' he begged so 

earnestly. 
An' I says : " He's all I've got; Lord, an' I know 

you'll surely spare 
My boy, an' let him come back." An' he's lyin' 

over there. 

An' I thought to go to Frisco, an' to greet him 

when he come ; 
An' to stay till he was mustered out, an' then to 

bring him home. 
An' so I'm here to see the boys, — to hear the 

shouts an' cheers ; 
A poor old father watchin' 'em through eyes 

that's blurred with tears. 
I know he's not among 'em, but it sort o' seems 

to me. 
That he can't be lyin' out there dead, across the 

sobbin' sea. 
There's so many boys, so many, that the Lord 

was good to spare. 
That I can't believe my boy is in his grave out 

over there. 



83 



Each little day 

That slips away 
And finds for thee no pleasure, 

That steals along 

Without a song, 
Is just a wasted treasure. 

The sands that pass 

Through the hour glass 
And find thee in repining, 

Mark the lost hours. 

The freshest flowers 
Blow when the sun is shining. 

Thou shalt not grope 

For the lost hope 
Through darkness dim, unending. 

Ne'er vain regret 

Succeeded yet 
A broken thread in mending. 

The chance that's lost, 

Let not the cost 
Be flowing tears and sighing, 

When countless more 

From Hfe's vast store 
Are to be had for trying. 

So put away 

Thy cares today, 
And cease thy fate reviling; 

For Chance eludes 

The soul that broods. 
And courts the soul that's smiling. 



84 



Some sleep under the sighing pine, 

And some sleep under the snow ; 
Some where flowers toss and twine, 

And some where oceans flow. 
Some where the glacier growls and grinds, 

And some 'neath the cool, green sod; 
But all sleep the same sleep, and wakmg finds 

Each one in the arms of God. 

Wrtttitg n fotor ^cmt 

He wrote home : " Mother, dear, I have 

A place that will not fail. 
I'm working for the Commonwealth." 

('Twas true — he was in jail.) 

" I board and lodge at my employer's 
House." (Twas so, you see.) 

" I have a private room, that has 
Been set apart for me. 

" My habits are quite regular. 

I do each bidden task. 
My food "—('Twas bread and water, lone ;) 

'' Is all that I can ask. 

'' I'm held above my fellow men 

And my companions here." 
(He was the only prisoner 

Kept in the upper tier.) 

" I had some hope that I might come 

To see you Christmas Day; 
But as it is, I do not see 

How I can get away. 

85 



" I am to make a journey soon," 
(He was condemned, you know, 

For murder,) " but I cannot say 
Yet, just where I will go." 

The sherifif wrote, after 'twas done: 

'' Your son died suddenly. 
'Twas just this morning he dropped off ' 

(The gallows, don't you see.) 

" Your son stood high among us here," 
(The gallows was quite tall.) 

*'And hundreds gathered at the last " — 
(They did — to see him fall.) 

The dear old lady read the news, 

And said, wiping her eye: 
*'Ah, well — since he must be cut down, 

I'm glad he stood so high." 



E\}t (Unp Mill Pa0B 

The cup will pass. 

How bitter may it be ; 
Though thou mayst drain 

Its deepest dreg and lee, 
A sweeter wine 

Some day will brim the glass, 
The draught be thine; 

The bitter cup will pass. 



86 



^tnhbth IftH Eat 

Did ye ever pass a youngster 'et 'd been an' 

stubbed his toe, 
An' was cryin' by the roadside sort o' quiet like 

an' slow; 
A-holdin' of his dusty foot, all hard an' brown 

an' bare, 
An' tryin' to keep fr'm his eyes th' tears that's 

gatherin' there? 
Ye hear him sort o' sobbin' like, an' snufflin' of 

his nose. 
Ye stop an' pat his head an' some way try t' ease 

his woes; 
Ye treat him sort o' kind like, an' th' fust thing 

that y' know, 
He's up an' off an' smilin' — clean forgot he 

stubbed his toe. 

'Long th' road o' human life ye see a fellow trav- 

elin' slow, 
An' like as not ye'll find he's some poor chap 

that's stubbed his toe. 
He was makin' swimmin' headway, but he 

bumped into a stone. 
An' his friends kep' hurryin' onward an' they 

left him here alone. 
He ain't sobbin' er ain't snifflin' — he's too old 

for tears an' cries, 
But he's grievin' jes' as earnest, ef it only comes 

in sighs ; 
An' it does a heap o' good, sometimes, to go a 

little slow. 
To say a word o' comfort to th' man that's 

stubbed his toe. 



87 



Ye're never sure yerself, an' th' ain't no earthly 

way t' know 
Jes' when it's goin' t' come yer time t' trip an' 

stub yer toe ; 
Today ye're smilin', happy, in th' bright sun's 

heat an' glow, 
Tomorrow ye're a' shiverin' as ye're trudgin' 

through th' snow. 
Jes' when ye think ye got th' world th' fastest in 

yer grip 
Is th' very time, ye'U find, et ye're th' likeliest t' 

slip; 
'N' it's mighty comfortin' t' have some fellow 

stop, I know, 
An' speak t' ye an' kind o' help ye when ye've 

stubbed yer toe. 



Today, bestrewn the troubled way 
With fears, as saints we kneel to pray. 
The way tomorrow unbeset, 
Self-proud we rise — and we forget. 



An Art Qlrtttrtsm 

A ragged kid in a torn straw hat, 

With his hair stuck through, an' a sassy smile, 
An' one suspender 'crost, like that — 

Wal — it may be art, but it ain't my style. 

Diggin' th' sand with his bare big toe, 
An' a big loose patch sewed to his knee; 

Shovin' his hands in his pockets — so ; 
Why they call that art, dogged ef I see. 

88 



Why, th' little runt 'et's painted there, 

With his eyes half closed, an' winkin' down, 

Th' sassy little rat, I swear 

I've seen him, right in my own town. 

Them funny freckles, big an' brown, 

'N' them ragged pants an' that torn straw hat — 

I bet I kin find, right in our town, 
A dozen kids 'et look like that. 

Why, sho ! I've caught more kids like that 
In th' limbs o' my own apple tree, 

Lookin' out under that ol' straw hat. 
An' winkin' sassy down at me. 

Th' little scamp ! I kin almost hear 

Him say : '* Hev an apple. Dad," an' throw 

One down an' ketch me on th' ear ! 

Why they call that art, dogged ef I know. 

An' th' goldarned thing ! A city chap 
Come along an' paid five hundred cold 

Fer it, an' thought he had a snap. 
I had t' laugh 't how he got sold. 

A ragged kid in a torn straw hat, 

Like I've seen a hundred times, I bet: 

An' payin' out that much fer that! 
B' gosh, th' fools ain't all dead yet ! " 



S9 



A feathered arrow to his bow 
The archer Hatred fitted taut, 

Drew tight the bowstring, kneeling low, 
And forth a venomed message shot. 

So full his quiver he forgot. 

Ere died the twang of his bowstring. 

The poisoned shaft that forth he shot, 
The venomed m.essage set a-wing. 

Until, as through the wood he sped 
Another day, he found it where 

A heart, fell stricken, lying dead. 

The shaft had pierced and quivered there. 



The's a little touch o' winter in th' air, 
The's leaves a-droppin', droppin' everywhere, 
The's gusts o' snow a-blowin', 
But the's evergreen a-growin', 
Lookin' fresher 'n brighter 'n ever, 
Jes' to show 'et th' ain't never 
Any time when all th' trees is stripped an' bare. 

The's a little touch o' trouble in th' air, 
The's friends a-droppin', droppin' everywhere, 
But the's some 'et's clingin' faster, 
Even when ye've met disaster, 
Jes' to show 'et th' ain't ever 
Any trouble 'et can sever 
Friends 'et's evergreen — th' kind o' friends 'et's 
rare. 



90 



" Give me Fame," cried the genius. 

The wizard's smile was grim; 
His arm stretched forth and a tasteless fruit 

Plucked from a rotten limb. 
" I seek, sir, Fame," cried the genius, 

" Ye have given me instead 
A rotten fruit." The wizard spoke: 

" This is Fame," he said. 

" Give me Power," cried the monarch. 

The wizard smiled again. 
A crown of thorns he gave to him 

And a sword with a bloody stain. 
'' But I seek Power," cried the monarch, 

" What have ye given instead ? " 
The wizard spoke : '' I tell thee, Sire, 

These are Power," he said. 

" Give me Love," cried the maiden. 

The wizard sadly smiled; 
A bleeding heart he gave to her, 

And the form of a cold, dead child. 
" I asked for Love," mused the maiden, 

" Ye have given me Grief instead." 
The wizard sighed and softly spoke: 

" Love is Grief," he said. 

*' Give me Peace," cried a weary soul. 

The wizard laughed aloud. 
Drew forth from his store of treasure 

And gave to him a shroud. 
" I asked for Peace," he shuddered, 

*' Ye give me Death, instead." 
The wizard mused. " I tell thee 

That this is Peace," he said. 5 



91 



Back among the trees and trellises, along the 
leaf-strewn lane, 

Sitting on the bank of the mill stream and dream- 
ing dreams again. 

Drinking water sweet as nectar from the bucket 
at the well. 

In the orchard's leaf and silence, watching wind- 
falls as they fell. 

Trying here, at five and thirty, just to be a boy 
again. 

To recall the joys of boyhood and forget the 
cares of men ; 

But I listen to a lesson in the twitter of the wren : 

When the boy's heart turns to man's it never 
throbs the same again. 

Once the sun marks noon of lifetime, once the 

morning steals away. 
Once the shadows growing shorter and then fall 

the other way. 
Once the play time ends at manhood, once the 

frolicking is done. 
Once the face is turned from dawning to the set- 
ting of the sun, 
You may sit among the flowers that you plucked 

and threw away, 
Turn the leaves of Time all backward, try to read 

them as you may. 
You may kindle fires of Memory, you may sit 

and watch the flame, 
But there's something changed within you that 

can never be the same. 



92 



You may lay aside the burden of your troubles 

as you will, 
But the' bent and sunken shoulders tell the story 

to vou still ; 
The story of the troubles and the trials that are 

sealed 
From the simple hearts of children, and to men 

alone revealed. 
The sorrow dulls, the sigh is stilled, the sore 

hearts soothed are, 
The smarting wound is healed again, but always 

leaves a scar, 
The fire of youth burns only once, and dies m 

its dead flame, 
The simple heart of boyhood that can never be 

the same. 

So I sit among the trellises and trees and wonder 

why: 
Clear the air as in my boyhood and as blue the 

unflecked sky. 
Full the leaves as ever blowing, sweet the bird 

songs and as free, 
But the boy's heart that throbbed to them is un- 
tuned and dead in me. 
There's a longing, longing, longing, speaking in 

a deep-drawn sigh, 
For the heart that throbbed in boyhood, cloudless 

as the azure sky; 
For the heart that was the sunlight and the air — 

that tongue nor pen 
Can ever paint or picture — that I cannot know 

again. 



93 



Had we not met we had not known these sighs, 
These heartaches and these leaden-winged 
years, 

The sorrows speaking in these grief-wet eyes ; 
Had we not met we had not known these tears. 

And yet, had we not met, we had not known 
The bHss of gladness in those other whiles, 

Ere the gay-plumaged yesterday had flown. 
Had we not met we had not known those 
smiles. 



The sweetest song is the unsung, 
Unspoken is the kindest word, 

The clearest chime the heart's unrung. 
The grandest music the unheard. 

Nor singer grand, nor bard with lyre. 
Within his sweetest song may hold 

The fullness of the flaming fire 
That leaps within, but is not told. 

There is a grandeur and sublime 
That lingers hidden in the heart; 

That will not speak in note or rhyme, 
The fire, unseen, that flames apart. 

The grandest deed is that, undone. 

Whose endless promptings veer and roll 

But take no shape — the rayless sun 
That shines unseen within the soul. 



94 



And, deed or song or rhyme or word, 
That soul may stir, or heart may fill, 

There is a sweeter far, unheard, 
An unseen beauty, grander still. 

No tongue may tell the deepest roll, 
Where, all unfathomed, sweep apart 

The ocean waters of the soul. 

The depths unseen, within the heart. 



'' Don' go. Bill, don' go ! 

I know it mus' seem slow 

Here on th' farm f er a boy like you ; 

I know the's many a chore to do; 

Not much in th' way o' company, 

'Cept what ye git from Ma an' me ; 

An' it's temptin' to think o' th' world so wide, 

An' all o' th' pleasures o' Hfe outside 

Our quiet little home life here ; 

But, Bill, it'll seem so hard an' queer 

Fer Ma an' me, as we alius do, 

Not to sit an' feel so proud o' you 

When we see you 'roun'. I know it's slow, 

But, Bill, I wisht you wouldn't go ! 

** Don' go, Bill, don' go ! 
Ma's tears jes' flow an' flow 
When she's packin' up yer trunk — an' I — 
Well, Bill, I ain't much on th' cry. 
But th' ol' man's heart is heavy, Bill, 
The's an achin' there that won't be still. 
Jim's gone, an' though a year's gone by, 
It don' seem right he had to die ; 



95 



Then Jack lef home, an* Lou is wed, 
An' mebbe even Jack is dead, 
Fer we haven't heard a word from him. 
Bill ! Bill ! Our flock has grown so sHm, 
Ye're all we've got now, Bill, an' so 
I jes' can't bear to let ye go ! 

" What d'ye say, Bill ? Ye won't go ! 

Boy, boy, ye'll never know 

What a load ye've raised fr'm th' ol' folks' heart, 

Fer we couldn't bear to see ye start. 

Come, here. Bill, let me hug ye once; 

Well, drat me fer a sneakin' dunce, 

If my blame ol' eyes ain't filled with tears, 

When I feel like whoopin' up with cheers. 

An' Bill, let's go tell Mother so. 

That her boy says he ain't goin' to go." 



upon the stream of Life we see 

The ship of Opportunity 
Cast loose from wharf and pier, 

And slip to sea; alone we stand, 
Forsaken in a lonely land. 

Beset with fear on fear. 
Across the wave we cry and call : 

"Ho! Wait! Ho! Wait! Ho! Wait!" 
The mocking echoes fly and fall: 

" Too late ! Too late ! Too late ! " 



96 



Never a care as she lies asleep, 

Dear little lassie with red-brown hair; 
Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep, 

Keep for the little one slumbering there. 
Never a dream as she lies so still, 

Never a dream but of Fairyland, 
Fairyland and the flowers that fill 

Her bed, and the liHes within her hand. 

Never a tear as she lies at rest, 

Now or ever or evermore; 
Never a sorrow to bruise her breast, 

Ever the gladness of fairylore. 
Never the rough way to bruise her feet. 

Never or ever a discord sound, 
Only the murmur of music sweet, 

And the laughing of Cherubim, all around. 

Never a sigh from the silent lips, 

For the dollies all carefully laid away; 
Only the music of laughter slips 

Out of the realm of the sunlit day. 
Never or ever a thought or care, 

For the little hat with its flowered wreath, 
Bearing a vision of red-brown hair 

Flying in tangled curls beneath. 

Dead? Ah, no! She is just asleep. 

Asleep where the dreams and daisies are; 
Angels of Light a sweet vigil keep. 

Keep in the light of a twinkling star. 
Asleep, and the odors of flowers fill 

Her bed, and the lilies within her hand ; 
Asleep, and the whispering angels still 

Her sighs with the dreams of Fairyland. 



97 



Sometimes when Pa gets mad because 
I bust some of his household laws, 
He says : ** Look here, you rascal, you, 
I'll whale you, sir, that's what I'll do." 
An' Ma, she just turns up her nose, 
An' sits there in refined repose. 
An' higher still her nose she tilts ; 
An' Pa don't Hck me — he just wilts. 

When Ma gets mad because I do 

Some little thing she said not to, 

She don't talk loud and wild like Dad, 

But just says : '' Will, come here, my lad." 

An' Pa don't get no chance to tilt 

His nose — an' Ma, well, she don't wilt ; 

She just leads Willie boy away 

Out to- the shed and makes him lay 

Acrost her lap — seems just like play, 

*Cept Willie don't sit down that day. 



fl^labttrBB Ig tl|^ Wag 

Let us smile along together, 
Be the weather 

What it may. 
Through the waste and wealth of hours, 
Plucking flowers 

By the way. 
Fragrance from the meadows blowing, 
Naught of heat or hatred knowing, 
Kindness seeking, kindness sowing. 

Not tomorrow, but today. 



98 



Let us sing along, beguiling 
Grief to smiling 

In the song. 
With the promises of heaven 
Let us leaven 

The day long. 
Gilding all the duller seemings 
With the roselight of our dreammgs, 
Splashing clouds with sunlight's gleammgs, 

Here and there and all along. 

Let us live along; the sorrow 
Of tomorrow 

Never heed. 
In the pages of the present 
What is pleasant 

Only read. 
Bells but pealing, never knelling, 
Hearts with gladness ever swelling, 
Tides of charity upwelHng 

In our every dream and deed. 

Let us hope along together, 
Be the weather 

What it may, 
Where the sunlight glad is shining, 
Not repining 

By the way. 
Seek to add our meed and measure 
To the old Earth's joy and treasure, 
Quaff the crystal cup of pleasure, 

Not tomorrow, but today. 



99 



La§(X 



Sweet songs, half whispering to me in the soli- 
tude 
Of sweeter melody they might have sung, 
And phantom flowers that scent for me the leafy 
wood 
With wraiths of the perfume they might have 
flung. 
Sweet faces smiling dimlv through the shadowy 
light. 
Ghosts of the full perfection that had shown, 
Had not the sun gone down ere it was night, 
Leaving but shadows of the unfulfilled, alone. 



lOO 



There are flowers of good cheer growing close 
by the way 
That stretches from dark to the dawn; 
Full wreathed in the green leaves of smiles, so 
they say, 
And never or ever are gone. 
The snows of misfortune deep m.antling the 
ground, 
The blasts from the Northland grow shrill, 
Beneath we may find them full blooming around. 
And pluck them whenever we will. 

There are ripples of laughter down deep in the 
heart, 

As flowers that bloom 'neath the snows; 
Though fettered with ice there is water apart, 

That tinkles and trills as it flows. 
The breath of Misfortune may strew its hoar 
frost. 

The moan of the winter be chill, 
The music of joy be afar but not lost. 

And we may still hear, if we will. 

There are songs of Delight on the wings of the 
wind, 
Though hoarser the tempest we hear ; 
Though fierce in its raging the wild storm has 
dinned 
Its discord of strife on the ear. 
The deep diapason, the storm's sullen roar, 

Shall sink to a murmur, be still ; 
And songs that are sweeter shall tremble once 
more, 
The songs we may hear, if we will. 



lOI 



" Indeed, I regret that I cannot accept," 

(Oh, Lord, what a whopper was that!) 
" Poor writing is weak ; if I only could speak," 

(Yes, if I could speak — through my hat!) 
" I feel that )^ou'd know that it just grieves me 
so." 

(If I went I just know I should die.) 
" For it's always a treat at your dear house to 
meet ! " 

(Oh, yes, it's a treat — in your eye!) 

" Your at-home cards enclosed found me quite 
indisposed " 
(To accept — but I don't write it so.) 
"And I really don't dare yet to risk the night air." 

(And your airs would kill me, I know!) 
" I would come and right quick if I weren't so 
sick " 
(Of the trashy amusements you shower!) 
" You dear soul, you don't know how much I'd 
like to go " 
(Before I'd been there half an hour!) 

*' I'm sure that each guest will with pleasure be 
blessed." 
(I'm blessed if I envy their lot!) 
" I'd give anything to hear dear Clara sing ! " 

(How thankful I am that I'll not!) 
" I know I will hear from my friends just how 
dear 
Was your function" (if any endure), 
"And I know 'tis a fact 'twill be nice as your 
tact." 
(I pity it if 'tis as poor!) 



I02 



sill? Stttl 0f WxBljtttg 

To his young wife he said : 

" Could I 
But taste again my 

Mother's pie, 
I would be willing, quite, 

To die." 

They rode out to the 

Farm one day, 
A week or so with 

Ma to stay; 
He stowed a whole 

Mince pie away. 

Now that for which he 

Long had sighed 
Lay like a lump of 

Lead inside 
His stomach; he lay 

Down and died. 

The man who craves youth's 

Pies, 'tis true, 
If he would eat them and 

Not rue, 
Should have his boyhood's 

Stomach, too. 



103 



wife 




mc. ^u 1904 















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